•NRLF 


Beauy  anb 
Belles 


COPYRIGHT,  1896 

BY 
ARTHUR  GRISSOM 


"etc  TRnichetbochcc  iptcfs,  "fte* 


TO  MY  SWEETHEART 
FRIEND,  AND  WIFE 


M191946 


PREFACE.* 

A  certain  Bard  (as  Bards  will  do) 
Dressed  up  his  Poems  for  Review. 

Austin  Dob  son. 

Short  is  the  date,  alas,  of  modern  rhymes, 
And  't  is  but  just  to  let  them  live  betimes. 

Pope. 


*  For  the  privilege  of  republishing  these 
verses,  special  acknowledgment  is  due  to  the 
editors  of  Leslie's  Weekly,  Life,  Truth,  Vogue, 
Town  Topics,  Godey's  Magazine,  Munsey's, 
Overland  Monthly,  Dramatic  Mirror,  New 
York  Herald,  and  The  Chap-Book. 


CONTENTS. 


AT  CUPID'S  COURT. 

The  Waif 3 

Princess  Charmynge          ...  6 

Evening  in  Broadway       ...  8 

The  Debutante  10 
To  an  Old  Portrait  .         .         .         .12 

A  Gentleman  of  the  Old  School        .  15 

Vie  de  Societe 16 

Wedded  .         .         .        .        ,'        .  18 

My  Lady's  Boudoir  ....  20 

Ideals       .         .         .         .         .         .22 

Above  Hr  Fancie  Worke       '  V  •  '    .  24 

Grandma's  Wedding  Gown       .         .  25 

A  Glimpse        .         .         .         .         .  27 

Blase 28 

Vivette     .         .        .        ...         .  30 

The  Passing  of  the  Modern  Momus  .  32 

To  an  Old  Guitar     ....  34 

Romance  at  Ten       ....  36 

A  Fashionable  Graduate  ...  38 

A  Coquette's  Ruse    ....  40 

The  Lucky  Gown     ....  41 

Before  the  Ball         ....  43 


Contents 


PAGE 

Retribution       .         .-.»'..         .  44 

A  Love  Song    ....         .  46 

The  Old-Fashioned  Girl  .         .         .  47 

My  Lady  of  the  Marigold          .         .  49 

To  Julia  .         .         .         ,       '-.         .  51 

On  Julia's  Red  Fan          .         .         .  52 

Ballade  of  Spring  Departure      .         .  53 

Ballade  of  Forgotten  Loves       .         .  55 
A  Fan  Fancy   .         .         .         .         -57 

At  the  Bal  Masque  ....  58 

Dalliance          .         .         .         .         .  59 

Souvenir  de  Jeunesse        ...  60 

A  Cynic's  Conclusion  61 

With  Her  Red  Lips  So  Like  the  Rose  62 

SONGS  IN  SEASON. 

A  Spring  Song          ....       65 

Primavera         ...         ...         .       67 

Under  the  Red  Lily          ...       68 
The  Happy  River     ....       69 

Love-Notes       .         .         .         .  71 

Under  a  Sunshade    .        .         .         -74 
Coaching          ..  ^         .         .76 

Aboard  the  Bumble  Bee   ...       77 
Pressing  Autumn  Leaves  ...       79 
The  Archery  Match          .         .         .81 
Bohemia  and  Bohea  ...         .       82 

A  Lovers'  Quarrel    ....       84 

The  Sleigh-Ride       ....       86 

Skating  Song 88 

viii 


Contents 

PAGE 

For  Valentine 90 

Heirlooms         .         .         .         .         .       91 

IVORY  MINIATURES. 
An  Ivory  Miniature          .         .         -95 

White      .   . 96 

Potpourri          .         .         .         .         -97 

The  Bride 98 

Spring  in  Tuscany    ....       99 
The  Artist        .         .         .         .         .100 

Identified 102 

In  Seville 103 

The  Ballet  Dancer    .         .         .         .104 

FANCY  A-WING. 

In  Italia 107 

Aholabeh no 

In  the  Highlands      .         .         .         .112 

The  Homesick  Wanderer          .         .     115 
Hafiz        .         .         .         .         .         .117 

Chrysanthemum       .         .         .         .119 

Felicia  of  Mexico     .         .         .         .121 

VARIA. 

Lay  of  the  Modern  Minstrel  .  .125 

To  Emma  Eames     .         .  .  .127 

No.  10,  Arcady         .         .  .  .129 

A  Predicament          .         .  .  .131 

Nocturne           .         .         .  .  .     133 
"  I  Love  You"        ....     134 

The  Scribe's  Sweetheart  .  .  .136 


Contents 


PAGE 

Fairy  Tales 137 

Futile  Intuition        .         .         .         .  139 

A  Message 140 

A  Woman's  Love     ....  142 

"  Your  Sin  will  Find  You  Out "       .  143 

Reconciliation           ....  144 

Too  Natural     .....  145 
The  Poet's  Farewell         .         .         .146 

A  Fling  at  Poets       ....  147 

Plaint  of  a  Poet        .        .         .        .  148 


AT  CUPID'S  COURT. 


THE  WAIF. 


ladies,  proud  and  great, 
Sweet  ladies  and  most  dear, 
Bend  from  your  high  estate, 

And  hear  me,  ladies,  hear  ; 
A  moment  stay  the  dance, 

I,  Cupid,  at  the  door, 
Beseech  you  for  a  glance, 
One  tender  word  implore  ! 

A  homeless  stranger  I, 

An  outcast  of  the  storm, 
So  cold  in  passing  by 

I  needs  must  stop  and  warm  ; 
Please  drive  me  not  away, 

And  do  not  frown,  or  scold, 
Have  pity,  ladies,  pray, 

I  am  so  cold  —  so  cold  ! 

Once,  in  a  happier  time, 
I  was  a  welcome  guest 
3 


anD 


In  every  home  and  clime 

With  youth  and  beauty  blest ; 

And  ladies  great  as  you, 
In  jeweled  silks  and  lace, 

Esteemed  me  fair  and  true, 
And  blushed  to  kiss  my  face. 


Ah,  those  were  happy  days  ! 

But  all  their  joys  were  vain  ; 
Maids  wearied  of  my  ways, 

And  gave  me  cold  disdain, 
Because,  forsooth,  there  came 

My  rival,  base  and  bold, 
Who  stole  their  souls.     His  name  ? 

His  name — ah,  me  ! — was  Gold. 


Since  then,  from  sun  to  sun, 

I  've  wandered  far  and  near, 
A  vagrant  maidens  shun, 

And  flout,  and  spurn,  and  fear  ; 
Yet  would  I  do  no  harm, 

Kind  ladies,  this  I  swear, 
More  than  to  teach  the  charm 

Of  living  to  the  fair  ! 
4 


Bt  GupiD'6  Court 


Behold,  my  broken  bow, 

My  quiver's  need  of  darts  ; 
I  know  not  where  to  go 

To  find  unselfish  hearts  ; 
Please,  ladies,  bid  me  stay, 

The  snow  is  cold  and  high, 
Have  pity,  ladies,  pray, 

Have  pity,  or  I  die  ! 


PRINCESSE  CHARMYNGE. 

CHE  is  Belle  of  all  ye  Towne  ! 
Whenne  she  Comes  &  Goes, 
How  hr  rivalles  frette  ande  frowne  ! 
What  a  general  bowynge  downe 
Of  ye  Beaux  ! 

She  is  fayre,  &  franke,  &  swete, 

Scarce  beyond  hr  teenes  ; 
But  adourers  at  hr  f  eete 
Fynde  hr  sovereigntie  compleat 
As  a  queen's. 

Whenne  she  smyles  or  spekes,  ye  aire 

Semes  to  thryll  with  Songe  ; 
Yf  for  one  she  semes  to  care 
Alle  besyde  are  inne  dispaire 
At  ye  wronge  ! 

Who  colde  saye  wh-  She  will  wed  ? 
Will  he  ryches  owne  ? 
6 


2U  Cupid's  Court 

Will  he,  whenne  ye  vows  are  sayde, 
Askynge  for  a  hearte,  instedde 
Get  a  stone  ? 

Ah,  my  Secrett  will  not  downe  ! 

Yett — how  can  it  be  ? 
She,  ye  beautie  of  renoune, 
She,  ye  Belle  of  alle  ye  Towne, 
Loves  but  Me ! 


EVENING  IN  BROADWAY. 

'T'HERE  is  hurrying  up  and  down, 
There  is  laughter  in  Broadway, 
For  the  beauties  of  the  town 

Now  are  trooping  to  the  play  ; 
They  are  come  from  Murray  Hill, 

From  the  houses  tall  and  fine 
By  the  Park  and  where  you  will, 

From  their  dinners  and  their  wine. 

You  can  mark  them  as  they  go 

By  their  stately  swing  and  dash, 
You  can  hear  their  laughter  low, 

You  can  see  their  jewels  flash  ; 
They  are  robed  in  silks  and  furs, 

They  have  not  an  earthly  care — 
Debutantes  and  dowagers, 

All  are  happy,  all  are  fair. 

And  the  men  who  walk  beside, 

With  their  sable  cloaks  thrown  back, 

8 


Bt  Gupt&'s  Court 


Showing  bosoms  white  and  wide 
In  relief  against  the  black, 

With  their  boots  of  fleckless  gloss, 
Lofty  hats  and  silvered  sticks, 

Think  no  more  of  gain  and  loss, 
Games  of  greed  or  politics. 

There  is  joy  in  every  breast, 

Hope  is  sweet  when  eyes  are  fond, 
Life  is  now  a  careless  jest, 

And  no  sorrow  lies  beyond. 
Are  there  souls  in  misery  ? 

Who  remembers  in  his  mirth  ? 
In  the  glow  of  lights  they  see 

Naught  of  all  the  gloom  of  earth. 

Note  the  shifting  up  and  down 

Of  the  pageant  in  Broadway, 
All  the  beauties  of  the  town 

Trooping  gayly  to  the  play  ! 
Will  a  mimic  scene  compare 

With  their  own,  do  you  suppose  ? 
Now  they  vanish,  and  the  air 

Smells  of  violet  and  rose. 


THE  DEBUTANTE. 

DETWIXT  the  blooming  and  the  bud, 

As  'twixt  the  dawnlight  and  the  day, 
She,  radiant  with  youthful  blood, 
Stands  on  the  verge  of  womanhood, 
Seeming  to  say  : 

"  Behold  me  !  I  am  chaste  as  light ! 

Behold  me  !  I  am  very  fair — 
Yea,  I  am  fair  in  all  men's  sight, 
A  flower  no  shame  or  sin  may  blight, 
Mocking  despair." 

I  know  this,  having  lived  thus  long  : 

To  human  eyes  the  fairest  thing 
In  all  this  world  of  woe  and  wrong, 
Is  maidenhood — incarnate  song, 
Symbol  of  spring. 

I  know  this,  learned  of  all-wise  Time  : 
God's  masterwork  it  is  ;  I  know 
10 


at  GuplD's  Court 


'T  is  sweeter,  fairer,  more  sublime, 
Than  aught  else  told  in  rune  or  rhyme 
Written  below. 

Believing  this,  as  all  men  must, 
I  marvel  at  the  ill  man  hath 
To  be  a  traitor  to  her  trust, 
To  poison  her  sweet  lips  with  lust, 
Knowing  God's  wrath. 


II 


TO  AN  OLD  PORTRAIT. 

(BY  A  MODERN  CYNIC.) 


lady,  you  were  once,  I  'm  told, 
A  famous  belle,  of  many  graces, 
Who  won  the  hearts  of  young  and  old, 

And  loyal  praise  in  royal  places  ; 
Who  danced,  coquetted,  played,  and  sung, 

Until  your  maidenhood  departed, 
Were  wed,  but  passed  away  while  young, 
And  left  a  hundred  broken-hearted  ! 

A  nice  and  proper  record  —  yet 

You  'd  nowadays  be  voted  stupid  ; 
Now  really,  did  you  quite  forget 

To  give  at  least  one  shock  to  Cupid  ? 
Dear  me  !  how  could  you.  please  the  men, 

And  make  a  lasting  reputation, 
Without  o'erstepping,  now  and  then, 

The  narrow  limits  of  your  station  ? 

12 


Bt  Cupi&'s  Court 


That 's  why  you  died  so  soon,  of  course, 

'T  is  often  so  with  those  so  moral ; 
If  you  had  only  tried  divorce, 

And  told  the  public  all  the  quarrel  ! 
If  you  had  gone  upon  the  stage, 

And  sung  falsetto  in  the  chorus, 
Heigho,  but  you  'd  have  been  the  rage — 

And  still  would  live  to  plague  and  bore  us  ! 

'T  is  said  that  you  were  true  and  frank, 

And  ne'er  indulged  in  tales  misleading, 
And  never  smoked,  and  never  drank, 

Nor  suffered  ills  from  over-feeding  ; 
That  when  you  went  about  at  night, 

To  ball  or  play,  where  tongues  are  spiteful, 
You  kept  your  chaperon  in  sight, 

Yet  seemed  to  think  your  life  delightful  ! 

'T  is  also  said  you  sometimes  took 

A  friendly  interest  in  your  neighbors, 
And  that — oh,  horrors  ! — you  could  cook, 

And  knew  somewhat  of  household  labors  ; 
That  once  you  sewed  a  button  on 

Your  husband's  shirt — a  servant's  duty — 
And  once  you  waked  and  rose  at  dawn — 

Yet  managed  to  preserve  your  beauty  ! 
13 


anD  belles 


Good  lady,  here  I  lift  my  hat 

In  meek  obeisance  to  your  virtue  ; 
Believe  me  when  I  venture  that 

Your  modesty  in  nowise  hurt  you  ; 
You  make  it  plain  to  me,  at  last — 

The  thought  is  strange — almost  alarming- 
A  woman  not  bizarre  or  fast 

May  yet  be  admirable  and  charming  ! 


A    GENTLEMAN    OF    THE    OLD 
SCHOOL. 

YOU  would  not  think  to  see  him  there 

That  he  had  passed  threescore  and  ten 
So  straight  he  stands,  so  bright  his  eye- 
So  much  more  grand  than  other  men  ! 

His  courtly  mien,  his  knightly  grace, 

The  gallantry  he  ne'er  forgets, 
Are  so  distinguishing  you  think 

That  he  was  born  with  epaulets  ! 

He  brings  to  mind  the  storied  days 

Of  chivalry  in  feudal  lands, 
When  cavaliers  in  lace  and  gold 

Bent  low  to  kiss  their  ladies'  hands. 

One  fancies  that  when  Death  shall  come 
And  pluck  his  sleeve,  with  sombre  nod, 

With  hand  upon  his  heart  he  '11  make 
A  grave  obeisance  to  his  God  ! 


VIE  DE  SOCIETE. 

G  HE  boasts  a  crest  and  coat-of-arms  ; 

Her  grandsire  fought  at  Bunker  Hill  ; 
By  virtue  of  her  wealth  and  charms 

She  rules  her  gilded  world  at  will ; 
Her  life  is  one  of  fine  display, 

Indulgence  and  extravagance  ; 
She  only  lives  from  day  to  day 

To  dress,  and  drive,  and  dine,  and  dance. 

And  while  she  shines  at  play  or  ball, 

Or  at  her  own  exclusive  teas, 
Or  chats  throughout  a  morning  call 

Of  courts,  chiffons,  and  coquetries, 
Her  husband,  as  he  goes  and  comes, 

Sends  now  and  then  his  best  regards, 
And  finds  diversion  in  his  chums, 

His  clubs,  his  cognac,  and  his  cards. 

So,  like  the  lilies  of  the  field, 
They  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin  ; 
16 


Bt  Gupto's  Court 


"  A  bore  !  "  they  say,  and  yawn,  and  yield 
To  each  "  smart "  folly,  fad,  and  sin. 

And  what  has  life  for  such  as  these  ? 
Not  I  have  envy  or  regret ; 

I  have  my  pipe,  my  ale  and  cheese, 
My  brush,  my  garret,  and  Favette  ! 


WEDDED. 

T  WAS  married  last  night,  my  dear  fellow — 

You  remember  sweet  Isabel  Wright  ? 
Of  course — 't  was  at  old  Monticello 

You  brought  us  together  that  night. 
The  waltz  was  "  The  Love  of  a  Siren  "  ; 

So  trustful  and  warm  was  her  hand, 
I  laughed  as  I  quoted  from  Byron 

Of  "  vows  that  are  traced  in  the  sand." 

You  know  how  my  love  was  a  passion 

From  the  moment  we  met  at  the  ball ; 
Both  favorites  of  fortune  and  fashion, 

We  reigned  in  that  glittering  hall  ! 
I  fancy  we  caused  a  commotion, 

As  we  swept  past  the  guests  of  degree, 
While  she  sweetly  concurred  in  my  notion 

That  the  sirens  were  all  in  the  sea. 

She  gave  me  her  promise  that  season, 

'Neath  the  moon,  on  the  sands  of  the  shore  ; 
18 


Bt  Guptfc's  Court 


I  loved  all  the  more  for  the  reason 
I  had  ne'er  loved  a  woman  before. 

Naught  is  sweeter  than  love  but  requital — 
Gossip  called  us  a  well-mated  pair — 

I  was  lacking  in  naught  but  a  title, 
And  she  was  angelically  fair. 

Yes,  married — 't  was  in  sound  of  the  ocean  ; 

She  was  regal,  my  boy,  she  was  grand  ; 
I  shall  never  forget  my  emotion 

As  I  watched  her  and  thought  of  the  sand. 
She  posed  with  the  grace  of  a  fairy, 

Like  a  statue  in  marble  I  stood  ; — 
She  was  wed  to  the  Marquis  Old  Harry, 

And  I,  to  my  bachelorhood  ! 


MY  LADY'S  BOUDOIR. 

"  Calebs  quid  agam?  " — HORAT. 

A    SWEET  and  subtle,  rare  perfume, 

That  seems    to    charm    the    wayward 

sense 

Like  some  weird  witch's  strange  in 
cense, 
Pervades  the  silence  of  the  room. 

One  swift,  shy  look  doth  these  reveal : 
Much  rare  old  lace  from  inner  France  ; 
Some  gay  mementos  of  the  dance  ; 

A  curious  old-time  spinning-wheel ; 

An  ivory  curio  from  Japan  ; 

A  winged  god  from  buried  Rome  ; 

A  sealskin  from  a  Northland  home  ; 
A  worn  prayer-rug  from  Ispahan  ; 
20 


Court 


The  harp  of  some  quaint  Tyrolese  ; 

A  mandolin  from  sunny  Spain  ; 

A  seagull,  stuffed,  that  winged  the  main- 
A  host  of  queer  things  such  as  these. 

Soft  cushions,  pictures,  curtains  rare  ; 

A  couch  for  which  a  queen  might  sigh  ; 

All  things  that  please  the  artist's  eye, 
And  luxury  is  everywhere. 

It  seems  a  glimpse  of  things  above, 
A  bit  of  heaven  dropped  to  earth ; 
A  place  that  might  give  hallowed  birth 

To  wondrous  witcheries  of  love. 

I  trespass  on  forbidden  ground, — 

I  must  discovery  beware  ; 

When  sounds  her  step  upon  the  stair 
I  '11  haste  away,  and  not  be  found. 

I  steal  one  look — a  shameful  sin  ! 

I  feel  the  danger  of  delay, 

But  when  I  start  to  go  away, 
I  hear  my  lady's  voice  :  "Come  in  !  " 


21 


IDEALS. 


*THEY  did  not  meet  in  glittering  hall, 

At  birth  and  beauty's  court, 

Nor  yet  at  banquet,  play,  or  ball, 

The  scenes  of  Fashion's  sport ; 

Nor  anywhere  among  the  throng 

Of  gilded  Folly's  slaves, 
Whose  queens  make  wealth  the  cloak  of 

wrong, 
Whose  kings  are  secret  knaves. 


They  did  not  meet  among  the  flowers 

All  in  a  garden  fair, 
Where  birds  and  bees  beguile  the  hours, 

And  love  is  in  the  air  ; 
Where  Nature  dons  her  richest  robe, 

To  charm  all  eyes  that  see, 
And  groups  the  graces  of  the  globe 

In  bowers  of  Arcady. 
22 


Bt  Cupffc's  Court 


They  did  not  meet  in  foreign  climes, 

'Neath  cold  or  sunny  skies, 
'Mid  Scottish  hills  or  Spanish  limes, 

Or  where  sweet  Como  lies  ; 
They  did  not  meet  in  summer,  spring, 

In  winter,  or  in  fall  ; 
Ideals  are  aye  evanishing — 

They  did  not  meet  at  all  ! 


ABOVE  HR  FANCIE  WORKE. 

QOQUETTE  !     Above  hr  fancie  worke 
Hr  fancie  strayes  from  lace  to  lovers, 
&  who  shalle  saye  what  deepe  plans  lurke 

Withinne  hr  hearte,  as  Cupid  hovers 
Aneare  to  aide,  with  readye  bowe, 
Inne  layinge  some  new  lover  lowe  ? 


24 


GRANDMA'S  WEDDING  GOWN. 

T  O  !  here  is  grandma,  just  stepped  down 

From  the  picture  on  the  wall, 
Dressed  in  her  famous  wedding  gown, 

To  attend  the  fancy  ball ! 
No  wrinkle  mars  her  dear,  sweet  face, 

She  looks,  with  cheeks  aglow, 
Just  as  she  looked,  in  pearls  and  lace, 

Seventy  years  ago  ! 

No  wonder  she  was  worshipped  then 

In  all  the  country-side  ! 
No  wonder  hearts  were  broken  when 

She  wore  this  gown,  a  bride  ! 
And,  oh  !  to-night  she  's  just  as  fair 

As  when  she  wore  it  so, 
With  girdled  waist  and  powdered  hair, 

Seventy  years  ago  ! 

The  satin,  once  of  spotless  white, 
Is  yellowed  with  the  years  ; 
25 


JBeauj  anD  JBelles 


The  veil  that  fell  in  folds  of  light 
Is  stained,  but  not  with  tears  ; 

For  grandma's  life  was  one  long  May, 
As  free  from  ill  and  woe 

As  was  her  perfect  wedding-day, 
Seventy  years  ago  ! 

To-night,  in  all  her  youth  and  grace, 

For  all  to  praise  that  see, 
The  old  love-light  upon  her  face, 

She  conies  to  dance  with  me. 
Ah,  rose  so  like  the  parent  flower  ! 

Full  soon  our  love  shall  know 
The  joy  that  crowned  her  bridal  hour, 

Seventy  years  ago  ! 


26 


A  GLIMPSE. 

t_I  E  spoke  of  Love  as  a  snow-white  dove  ; 
And  this  morn,  as  I  raised  mine  eyes, 
A  dove,  snow-white,  flew  by  in  sight, 
And  was  lost  for  aye  in  the  skies  ! 


BLASE. 

LJ  E  finds  no  joyance  in  a  rose 

That  graced  an  hour  a  fair  one's  tresses, 
He  laughs  at  love,  as  one  who  knows 

That  maids  were  only  made  for  dresses  ; 
He  tells  you  looks  are  ladies'  lies, 

That  pledges  bore  unless  they  're  broken, 
And  as  for  tears  and  tender  sighs, 

They  only  painful  stays  betoken. 

He  lives,  he  says,  an  age  too  late, 

For  this  one's  hero  is  the  farmer, 
And  seeks  relief  in  slurring  fate 

Because  not  born  a  knight  in  armor. 
Life  nowadays  is  all  a  blank, 

Containing  not  one  new  sensation  ; 
And  what  's  a  million  in  the  bank  ? 

Why,  nothing  but  an  aggravation  ! 

Dear  !  dear  !  I  cannot  quite  agree 

With  all  he  says,  because — well,  Polly 
28 


Bt  CupfD's  Court 


Is  not  so  great  and  fine,  may  be, 
But  she  makes  life  seem  mighty  jolly  ! 

I  dare  say  I  'm  a  simple  wight 

To  think  her  pretty,  true,  forgiving, 

But  I  retain  my  appetite, 

And  find  a  real  delight  in  living  ! 


VIVETTE. 

T   'M  sure  I  cannot  understand 

Just  why  I  love  my  love  Vivette, 
She  's  not  the  least  bit  great  or  grand, 

Like  many  ladies  I  have  met ; 
She  's  not  o'erwise,  and  never  thinks 
How  great  /  am — the  little  minx  ! 
And  laughs  if  I  dare  broach  a  threat — 
She  has  so  many  faults — and  yet — 
And  yet — 

She  's  most  provoking  now  and  then, 

And  says  I  shall  not  call  her  "  pet "  ; 
Somehow  I  do  it  soon  again — 

It  is  so  easy  to  forget  ! 
And  all  the  while  I  wonder  why, 
When  she  is  but  Vivette,  and  I 
Am — well,  am  /,  and  I  regret 
That  I  have  told  my  love — and  yet — 
And  yet — 

30 


Gupt&'s  Court 


It  is  the  strangest  thing  I  know 

That  I  should  love  this  sly  Vivette  ; 

Why,  she  refused  me  long  ago — 
And  she  a  most  pronounced  brunette  ! 

Is  't  not  absurd  ? — and  when  I  've  said 

None  but  the  fairest  blonde  I  'd  wed  ? 

And  I  'm  entangled  in  her  net 

More  every  day  !     'T  is  wrong — and  yet — 

And  yet — 

What  shall  I  do  ?     I  think  I  '11  say  : 

"Good-bye,   Vivette — good-bye,   Vivette, 

Hereafter  I  '11  remain  away, 
And  all  your  little  ways  forget  !  " 

She  will  not  care — she  '11  only  laugh, 

"  Pray  don't  be  sad  on  my  behalf," 

She  '11  say — and  then  a  kiss  I  '11  get. 

I  think  she  's  very  bold — and  yet — 

And  yet — 


THE    PASSING    OF    THE     MODERN 
MOMUS. 

"  Momus  was  the  god  of  raillery  and  repartee  ;  at 
the  feasts  of  the  gods  he  played  the  buffoon.  His 
office  was  to  reprove  the  faults  of  the  gods,  which  he 
did  in  so  sarcastic  a  manner  as  to  put  himself  out  of 
favor." — Divighfs  Mythology. 

JVAIRTH  and  music  now  have  ceased, 
And  we  '11  drink  a  standing  toast 
To  the  Momus  of  our  feast 

Who  amused  and  vexed  us  most. 

Lo,  our  Folly's  king  is  dead, 

And  the  comedy  's  at  end  ; 
Ring  the  curtain  ;  bow  the  head  ; 

Friend  or  foeman  now  is  friend. 

Fate  provided  fittingly 

The  finale,  as  it  chanced  ; 
Dancing  as  he  bade  us  we, 

He  was  dying  while  we  danced. 
32 


Bt  Cupid's  Court 


Harlequin  and  sage  in  one, 

Clown  and  king,  but  never  knave  ; 
Yet  what  noble  deed  was  done  ? 

Who  will  weep  above  his  grave  ? 

Will  the  merry  host  he  led 
Honor  him  as  great  of  men  ? 

Drain  the  glass  once  to  the  dead  ! 
Ho  !  the  dance  begins  again  ! 


35 


TO  AN  OLD  GUITAR. 

T  TAKE  you  up  with  reverence, 

Although    you   're   rather  scarred   and 

seamy, 

And  never  more  will  charm  the  sense 
With  strains  inspiriting  or  dreamy  ; 
Methinks  if  you  were  tuned  anew, — 
You  can't  be,  so  't  is  but  a  fancy — 
The  only  music  made  by  you 

Would  be  a  tender  plaint  for  Nancy  ! 

Long,  long  you  've  lain  in  gloom  and  dust, 

But  many  a  memory  round  you  lingers ; 
You  once  were  loved,  and  how  you  must 

Have  thrilled  at  touch  of  Nancy's  fingers  ! 
She  played  you  as  she  played  with  hearts, 

For  ah,  my  lady  was  capricious, 
But    though    love's    wounds  have  grievous 
smarts, 

I  vow  her  playing  was  delicious  ! 
34 


Bt  Gupto's  Court 


I  envied  you  a  bit,  mayhap, 

Your  power  to  please,  and  sweet  successes, 
When  you  reclined  upon  her  lap, 

Responding  to  her  soft  caresses  ; 
/kept  my  distance,  bashful  lout  ! 

And  eyed  my  buckled  shoon  dejected, 
Until  my  cousin  cut  me  out — 

A  thing  I  'd  really  not  expected  ! 

And  then,  when  afterward  I  learned 

From  Nancy's  sister's  chiding  letter, 
(The  which,  I  own,  I  kissed, — and  burned), 

That  she  had  really  loved  me  better, 
I  had  some  trouble  in  my  side 

That  puzzled  Doctor  Sheley  greatly  ; 
It  grew  so  bad  when  Nancy  died, 

I  've  never  got  quite  well — till — lately. 

Heigho  !  my  eyes  are  getting  weak  ; 

Confound  me,  I  'm  a  soft  old  noddy  ! 
I  did  n't  know  the  past  could  speak 

So  touchingly  of  anybody. 
Ah,  me  !     To  think  her  old  guitar 

Should  turn  up  here  ! — a  priceless  token, 
Although  defaced  by  seam  and  scar, 

And  broken,  as  my  heart  was  broken  ! 
35 


ROMANCE  AT  TEN. 


VOU  were  the  Lady  of  Kiss-Again, 
And  I  was  the  Prince  de  Grand  ; 
You  of  the  odious  Ogre's  den, 

And  I  of  the  Beautiful  Land  ; 
You  were  the  maiden  divinely  fair 

Locked  in  the  castle  tower, 
While  I  was  the  knight  who  rode  by  there, 

And  caught  from  your  hand  a  flower. 

Do  you  remember  the  rescue  brave  ? — 

My  climbing  the  latticed  wall, 
With  oath  that  I  should  the  maiden  save, 

Or  else  in  my  own  blood  fall  ? 
And  how  you  were  borne,  on  the  old  gray 
mare — 

You  riding  behind,  astride — 
Away  to  the  regions  afar  and  fair, 

As  Lochinvar  bore  his  bride  ? 
36 


2lt  Gupffc's  Court 

The  years  have  plodded  along  apace, 

And  our  paths  have  led  us  apart, 
But  how  could  I  ever  forget  your  face 

When  you  never  returned  my  heart  ? 
Has  twenty  forgotten  the  joys  of  ten, 

And  the  way  to  the  Beautiful  Land  ? 
Ah,  still  you  're  my  Lady  of  Kiss-Again, 

And  I  am  your  Prince  de  Grand  ! 


37 


A  FASHIONABLE  GRADUATE. 

ROMAUNT  OF  A  SIMPLE  WIGHT. 

"T  IS  very  sad  to  read  of  woe, 

And  sad  to  write  of  trials  and  tears, 
But  ah,  my  grief  will  overflow 

Unless  to  sympathizing  ears 
I  pour  it  forth — a  dismal  tale — 

Each  word  will  give  your  heart  a  wrench 
This  is  the  burden  of  my  wail  : 

She  says  her  sweet  things  all  in  French  ! 

For  instance,  if  I  question  "  When?" 

"  Je  suis  bien  prete,"  she  murmurs  low  ; 
What  can  a  fellow  answer  then  ? 

How  can  I  say  I  do  not  know  ? 
In  language  plain  and  old  I  speak 

The  eager  love  that  naught  can  quench, 
While  in  a  manner  most  unique, 

She  says  her  sweet  things  all  in  French  ! 
38 


Bt  CupiD's  Court 


She  loves  me,  that  1  know  full  well, 

I  'd  swear  it  by  the  Book  of  Grace, 
The  fact  her  tender  glances  tell 

Whene'er  she  rests  them  on  my  face  ; 
And  once,  too,  in  a  billet  doux 

She  wrote  it,  and  the  truth  to  clench 
She  sweetly  signed  it  "  Tout  a  vous." — 

She  says  her  sweet  things  all  in  French  ! 

I  do  not  mind  when  they  are  writ ; 

I  take  my  French  book  from  the  shelf, 
And  close  and  hard  I  study  it 

Until  I  know  some  French  myself  ; 
But  when  in  passion  on  my  knees, 

Her  hand  in  mine,  they  make  me  blench 
I  think  I  'd  rather  have  her  sneeze 

Than  say  her  sweet  things  all  in  French  ! 

Ah,  pity  me,  who  hearts  possess 

Of  tender  sympathy  for  those 
Who  weep  and  wail  their  sore  distress, 

Without  cessation  of  their  woes. 
I  vow  I  '11  violate  the  laws 

By  suicide,  in  some  low  trench  ; 
Thus  end  my  wasted  life,  because 

She  says  her  sweet  things  all  in  French  ! 
39 


A  COQUETTE'S  RUSE. 

CHE  promised  me,  "No  word  of  mine 
Shall  cause  your  faith  in  me  to  dim 
And  then,  above  her  glass  of  wine, 
I  saw  her  look  at  him. 


40 


THE  "  LUCKY  GOWN." 

'THIS,  dear,  I  call  my  "  lucky  gown," 
This  symphony  of  pink  and  white  ; 
With  happy  heart  I  've  got  it  down 

To  wear  when  Willy  calls  to-night. 
'T  is  not  so  beautiful,  I  know, 

As  others  here,  and  not  so  new  ; 
I  wore  it  first — oh,  long  ago ! 

But  then — the  old  friends  are  the  true. 

Some  gowns,  you  know,  however  fine, 

A  girl  will  strangely  learn  to  hate, — 
'T  is  so  with  several  of  mine, — 

They  always  seem  unfortunate  ; 
While  others,  it  appears,  are  blessed — 

One  's  sure  to  have  good  times  in  them  ! 
Why,  this  one  is  worth  all  the  rest ! 

I  love  it — every  stitch  and  hem  ! 

'T  was  made  for  Clara's  wedding-day  ; 
I  was  her  dearest  friend,  you  see, 
41 


an£>  JBelles 


And  when  she  threw  her  bride's  bouquet, 

It  fell  directly  upon  me  ! 
I  wore  it  next  to  Grace's  ball  ; 

That  was  a  very  swell  affair  ; 
I  had  such  fun  !     And  —  that  's  not  all  — 

You  know  I  first  met  Willy  there  ! 

I  think  I  '11  wear  it  just  once  more 

To-night  —  there,  I  must  hurry  down  ; 
Who  '11  say  what  Fortune  has  in  store 

When  one  wears  such  a  fateful  gown  ? 
Now,  don't  you  think  it  looks  quite  well? 

Oh,  my  !  I  'm  trembling  so  !  —  who  knows 
But  Willy,  yielding  to  its  spell, 

May  feel  encouraged  to  —  -propose  ! 


42 


BEFORE  THE  BALL. 

r\EAD  in  an  alien  land,  and  alone  ! 

Shot  by  a  bravo,  swarth  and  bold  ; — 
Dead  !     Is  it  true  ?— and  I  loved  him  so  ! 
Though  bought  by  another's  gold. 

I  am  ready,  Lisette,  am  I  not — almost  ? 

And  now — my  rings  and  my  furs  are  here  ? 
Ah,  yes— there— thanks  !  I'm  perfect,  you 
say?— 

I  '11  be  down  in  a  moment,  dear  ! 

Dead  !  he  is  dead — and  I  sent  him  away, 
And  I  loved  him  as  only  a  woman  loves  ! 

Dead,  and  alone  ! — I  'm  coming,  dear  ! — 
Lisette,  will  you  button  my  gloves  ? 


43 


RETRIBUTION. 

CHE  tempted  me,  because  her  mouth  was 

sweet, 

Because  I  loved  the  languor  of  her  eyes  ; 
She  was  so  fair,  so  fair,  from  face  to  feet, 
How  could  it  be,  I  ask  you,  otherwise  ? 
She  tempted  me,  and  through  my  quick 
ened  blood 

Ran  riot  all  the  ardor  of  my  soul, 
And  o'er  my  face  up-rushed  the  fiery  flood 
That  told  the  secret  I  could  not  control. 
She  smiled  to  see  how  surely  love  betrays  ; 
She  was  so  wise  in  all  the  world's  sad  ways. 

Could  you  have  seen  her  tender,  glorious 

smile, 
And  read  the  pleading  language  of  her 

look, 
No  more  than  I  would  you  have  guessed 

the  guile 

That  marred   the  pages   of   her  heart's 
closed  book. 

44 


at  Cupifc's  Court 

I  did  not  know — I  was  so  blinded  then — 
My  faith  had  never  known  the  blight  of 

loss ; 
I  did  not  know  that  smiles   may  murder 

men, 
And  that   the  gold   of  beauty  may  be 

dross. 

I  was  the  prey  with  which  the  tigress  plays  ; 
She  was  so  wise  in  all  the  world's  sad  ways. 

What  meed  of  triumph  and  what  joy  were 

hers 
She  best  may  tell  who  saw  my  pain  and 

shame  ; 
All  honor  that  a  love  betrayed  confers 

Redounded  to  the  greatness  of  her  name. 
But  in  that  piteous  aftertime  when  Fate 
Decreed  her  faith  should  be  as  mine  de 
nied, 
And   chance   disclosed    her   doomed   and 

desolate, 
I  saw  how  poor   a  thing  had  been  her 

pride. 

Thus  God  provides  His  vengeance  and  re 
pays  ; 

She  was  so  wise  in  all  the  world's  sad  ways. 
45 


A  LOVE  SONG. 

(**  O  to,  sad  fears  of  love  's  harsh  reign 

If  love  a  bondage  be, 
'T  is  sweeter  far  to  wear  the  chain 

Than  rule  a  kingdom  free  ! 
Go  to,  all  cold,  unreasoning  pride  ; 

False  dignity,  away  ! 
The  joy  is  mine  for  which  I  sighed, 

And  I  'm  a  slave  to-day  ! 

'T  is  well  the  hollow  creeds  of  youth 

Have  passed  away  so  soon, 
'T  is  well  to  learn  the  happy  truth 

While  life  is  in  its  June  ; 
And  when  I  look  into  her  eyes, 

So  fair  a  world  I  view, 
I  know  that  love  has  made  me  wise 

To  be  forever  true  ! 


THE  OLD-FASHIONED  GIRL. 

OHE'S  only  an  "old-fashioned  girl,"  she 
says, 

( Is  it  not  enough  to  disgrace  ? ) 
An  "  old-fashioned  girl"  with  womanly  ways, 

And  a  winsome  and  womanly  face  ; 
A  girl  who  is  innocent,  modest,  and  sweet, 

Who  is  sensible,  earnest,  and  true — 
The  kind  that  will  surely  be  obsolete 

In  another  short  year  or  two. 

She  is  n't  ambitious  for  questionable  fame, 

She  does  n't  ape  man  in  her  dress, 
She  does  n't  read  books  that  have  a  bad  name, 

Nor  herald  her  "  views  "  in  the  press  ; 
She  does  n't  use  slang,  nor  smoke  cigarettes, 

Nor  loudly  expound  "Woman's  Rights," 
She  shuns  all  the  fads  of  the  "fashionable 
sets," 

And  tc  home  "  is  her  chief  of  delights. 
47 


anfc  Belles 


She  's  only  an  "  old-fashioned  girl,"  you  see, 

And  not  in  the  least  "  up-to-date," 
But  she  is  the  kind  of  a  girl  for  me, 

And  the  kind  that  I  want  for  a  mate. 
I  know  it  is  very  "  old-fashioned"  to  say 

Your  wife  is  a  "  saint  from  above," — 
But  I  own  I  am  fond  of  her  "  old-fashioned  " 
way, 

And  proud  of  her  "old-fashioned"  love! 


48 


MY  LADY  OF  THE  MARIGOLD. 

JUI Y  Lady  of  the  Marigold  is  fair  to  look 

upon, 

The  fairest  queen  in  all  the  sunny  West  ; 
Her  eyes  are  like  blue  violets,  all  dewy  in 

the  dawn, 
Her  tresses  like  the  mangold  that 's  pinned 

upon  her  breast. 
She  Avanders  in  the  garden  ;  the  birds  attend 

her  there  ; 

The  roses  lend  their  color  to  her  cheeks  ; 
The  sunlight  lingers  lovingly  upon  her  flow 
ing  hair, 

And  all  the  flowers  lean  to  hear  the  music 
when  she  speaks. 

My  Lady  of  the  Marigold  wears  neither  silks 

nor  lace  ; 
Upon  her  wrists   there   gleam   no   costly 

bands ; 

But  knight  or  king  ne'er  knelt  before  a  queen 
of  gentler  grace, 
49 


3Beau£  anfc  JBellea 


To  sue  for  priceless  favors  from  her  white 

and  jeweled  hands. 

My  Lady's  radiant  jewels  are  two  bewitching 
eyes  ; 

Her  gold  she  plucked  beneath  her  window- 
shrine, 

And  oh  !  the  wealth  of  tenderness  that  in  her 
action  lies, 

When   in  my  hand  she  places  hers,  and 
lifts  her  lips  to  mine  ! 

My  Lady  of  the  Marigold,  I  love  you  well 

and  true  ; 

I  ne'er  again,  O  love,  will  leave  your  side  ; 
My  world  of  cold  hypocrisy  shall  not  enfetter 

you, 
But  in  some  far  and  lovely  realm  alone  we 

two  shall  bide. 
We  '11  dream  beside  blue  waters,  that  dance 

upon  the  shore  ; 
Our  ships  will  be  white  clouds  that  sail  the 

,    sky; 
The  marigolds  will  bloom  for  you,  the  birds 

sing  evermore, 

And  all  the  world — the  happy  world — will 
be  just  you  and  I  ! 
50 


TO  JULIA. 

(IN   IMITATION   OF   HERRICK.) 

JULIA  !  Since  your  lips  are  red 

From  the  rose  that  on  them  bled  ; 
Since  your  breath  is  sweet  as  wine 
Sipped  from  cups  of  eglantine  ; 
Since  your  mouth,  a  Cupid's  bow, 
Seems  with  blissful  love  aglow — 
Tempting,  as  a  mouth  should  be — 
Guess  I  '11  take  a  kiss  or  three ! 


ON  JULIA'S   RED  FAN. 

IT  OW  very  strange  !     This  fan  was  white, 

When  on  it  I  began  to  write, 
But  lo  !  it  blushed  a  rosy  red 
On  hearing  what  I — might  have  said  ! 


BALLADE  OF  SPRING  DEPARTURE. 

CARE  WELL  to  Town— the  Season's  done ; 

Farewell  to  banquet,  ball,  and  play, 
Farewell  to  folly  and  to  fun, 

And  all  that  made  the  Season  gay  ! 

The  time  has  come  to  hie  away 
Beyond  the  pale  of  Fashion's  throng, 

Our  steamer  leaves  at  break  o'  day — 
We  're  going  to  do  the  Continong  / 

'T  is  not  good  form  for  anyone 
Who  aims  to  be  of  vogue  au  fait, 

And  with  the  swagger  set  to  run, 
At  home  or  club  to  longer  stay, 
So  close  the  blinds  without  delay, 

And  let  us  pack  and  haste  along  ; 
With  vast  importance  and  display 

We  're  going  to  do  the  Contin0«g-  / 

Our  tour  at  Havre  will  be  begun, 
We'll  be  at  Buda-Pesth  in  May, 
53 


.T6cau.r  and  Belles 


At  Berne  we  '11  view  the  rising  sun, 
In  Rome  the  old  Flaminian  Way  ; 
Beside  the  Rhine  we  mean  to  stray 

A  fortnight — which  we  may  prolong  ; 
Let  all  the  Papers  know,  we  pray, 

We  're  going  to  do  the  Continong  / 

L'ENVOI. 

Servants,  now  don't  the  truth  betray, 
For  that  would  be  exceeding  wrong 

Though  bound  for  Jersey,  still  we  say 
We  're  going  to  do  the 


54 


BALLADE  OF  FORGOTTEN  LOVES. 

COME  poets  sing  of  sweethearts  dead, 

Some  sing  of  true  loves  far  away, 
Some  sing  of  those  that  others  wed, 

And  some  of  idols  turned  to  clay  ; 

I  sing  a  pensive  roundelay 
To  sweethearts  of  a  doubtful  lot, 

The  passions  vanished  in  a  day — 
The  little  loves  that  I  've  forgot. 

For,  as  the  happy  years  have  sped, 

And  golden  dreams  have  changed  to  gray, 

How  oft  the  flame  of  love  was  fed 

By  glance,  or  smile,  from  Maud  or  May, 
When  wayward  Cupid  was  at  play  ; 

Mere  fancies,  formed  of  who  knows  what  ? 
But  still  my  debt  I  ne'er  can  pay 

The  little  loves  that  I  've  forgot. 

O  joyous  hours  forever  fled  ! 

O  sudden  hopes  that  would  not  stay  ! 

55 


JBelles 


Held  only  by  the  slender  thread 
Of  memory  that 's  all  astray. 
Their  very  names  I  cannot  say, 

Time's  will  is  done  ;  I  know  them  not 
But  blessings  on  them  all,  I  pray — 

The  little  loves  that  I  've  forgot. 

L'ENVOI. 

Sweetheart,  why  foolish  fears  betray  ? 

Ours  is  the  one  true  lovers'  knot ; 
Note  well  the  burden  of  my  lay — 

The  little  loves  that  I  Ve  forgot. 


A  FAN    FANCY. 

f    '•• 

(Rondeau.) 

I  JPON  her  fan  where  Cupids  play 

At  blind-man 's  buff  in  droll  array, 
A  bit  of  rhyme  he  dares  to  write 
Whose  theme  is  Love,  and  Love's  delight 

Oh,  bold,  bad  man  ;  what  will  she  say? 

And  while  she  reads  he  looks  away, 
To  awkward  doubts  and  fears  a  prey  ; 
"Oh  fool !  "  he  thinks,  "  to  love  indite 
Upon  her  fan  ! " 

He  starts  to  go  ;  she  bids  him  stay, 
Then  blushes,  sighs,  and — names  the  day  ! 

Ah,  clever  maid  !  ah,  happy  wight  ! 

Behold  a  couple's  lives  made  bright 
By  just  a  couplet  light  and  gay 
Upon  her  fan  ! 


57 


AT  THE  BAL  MASQUE. 

DEHIND  her  mask  two  dancing  eyes 

Glance  up  at  me  in  shy  surprise 
That  I,  who  love  her,  should  presume 
To  clasp  her  in  the  brilliant  room, 
Where  sounds  of  mirth  and  music  rise, 
And  claim  her  as  my  own  fair  prize ; 
True  love  is  fooled  by  no  disguise  ! 
I  caught  her  smile,  her  lips'  perfume 
Behind  her  mask ! 

As  well,  true  love  hath  enterprise, 
Else,  Prince  ( who  on  all  lovers  spies ), 
How  come  we  in  this  bower  of  bloom, 
Where,  all  unnoticed  in  the  gloom, 
I  steal  a  kiss  from  lips  love- wise, 

Behind  her  mask  ? 


DALLIANCE. 
(Triolet.) 

I   THOUGHT  to  write  an  epic  grand, 
Instead  I  turned  a  triolet ; 
With  the  old  masters  close  at  hand, 
I  thought  to  write  an  epic  grand  ; 
A  flaming  rose  was  in  demand, 

But  pleased,  I  plucked  a  violet. 
I  thought  to  write  an  epic  grand, 
Instead  I  turned  a  triolet. 


59 


SOUVENIR  DE  JEUNESSE. 

I  CAUGHT  a  rosebud  from  her  hair, 
She  bent  her  head  in  sweet  assent ; 
Trembling — she  was  so  wondrous  fair — 
I  caught  a  rosebud  from  her  hair  ; 
How  kind  she  was  on  that  dim  stair  ! 

While  asking  for  the  love  it  meant 
I  caught  a  rosebud  from  her  hair. 

She  bent  her  head  in  sweet  assent. 


60 


A  CYNICS  CONCLUSION. 

C  HE  loves  not  me,  forsooth, 
It  is  only  Love  she  loves  ; 
Ah,  yes,  it  is  all  the  truth — 
She  loves  not  me,  forsooth, 
Only  my  strength  and  youth, 

My  presents  of  gowns  and  gloves 
She  loves  not  me,  forsooth, 

It  is  only  Love  she  loves. 


61 


WITH     HER    RED     LIPS    SO     LIKE 
THE  ROSE. 

\JU1TH  her  red  lips  so  like  the  rose, 

(I  kiss  the  rose's  petal  tips) 
And  she  so  tempting  near,  who  knows, 
With  her  red  lips  so  like  the  rose, 
But  by  mistake  (she  must  suppose 

It  so),  I  kiss  instead  her  lips  ! 
With  her  red  lips  so  like  the  rose, 

Why  kiss  the  rose's  petal  tips  ? 


62 


SONGS  IN  SEASON. 


63 


A  SPRING  SONG. 

/""^H,  Peg  is  a  winsome  lassie. 

And  Peg  is  gentle  and  shy, 
And  Peg  has  the  sun  in  her  ringlets 

And  the  blue  of  the  sea  in  her  eye. 
I  found  her  down  in  the  meadow, 

On  a  morn  when  the  spring  was  young, 
And  I  kissed  her  lips  a  score  of  times, 

And  this  is  the  song  we  sung  : 

Ohone  !  but  it 's  time  to  be  merry  ; 

0  hey  !  but  it 's  now  to  be  glad  ; 
For  I'm  in  love  "with  my  lassie, 

And  she  's  in  love  with  her  lad ! 

And  the  day  it  was  fair  and  balmy, 

As  the  days  that  the  poets  sing, 
And  we  found  the  path  through  the  woodland 

By  the  old  forgotten  spring, 
Where  once  before  in  the  summer 

That  passed  away  too  soon, 
65 


3Beauj  anfc  JBelles 


We  gathered  the  yellow  jonquils, 
And  sang  this  happy  tune  : 

Ohone  !  but  it 's  time  to  be  merry  ; 

0  hey  !  but  it 's  now  to  be  glad  ; 
For  I'm  in  love  with  my  lassie, 

And  she  's  in  love  with  her  lad ! 

And  Peg  with  her  shy,  sweet  dimples, 

Playing  hide-and-seek  with  her  smiles, 
Gave  me  her  hand  for  safe-keeping 

As  we  sat  on  the  meadow  stiles  ; 
And  I  filled  her  arms  with  daisies, 

And  I  filled  her  lap  with  yew, 
And  all  the  long  way  homeward 

We  sang  of  hearts  that  are  true. 

Ohone  !  but  it 's  time  to  be  merry  ; 

0  hey  !  but  it  's  now  to  be  glad ; 
For  I  ym  in  love  with  my  lassie, 

And  she  's  in  love  with  her  lad ! 


66 


PRIMAVERA. 

I   IGHT  laughter  ringing  sweet, 
The  sound  of  dancing  feet, 
A  burst  of  song  ; 
A  girl  as  dear  to  me 
As  sunlight  to  the  sea, 
From  guile  and  grief  as  free 
As  rose  of  wrong. 

What  though  the  throstle  sing, 
For  very  joy  of  spring, 

With  silvery  note, 
The  music  that  I  hear 
Is  sweeter  and  more  dear 
Than  e'er  charmed  mortal  ear 
From  thrush's  throat  ! 

O,  hasten,  blooms  of  May  ! 
O,  hasten,  nuptial  day 

And  honeymoon  ! 
When  to  my  yearning  breast 
My  loved  one  shall  be  pressed, 
And  love  be  crowned  and  blest 

In  life's  long  June  ! 

NEW  YORK,  April  2,  1895. 
67 


UNDER  THE  RED  LILY. 

A   SHEAF  of  Easter  lilies  lies 

Beneath  my  dear  donzella's  head, 
And  blue  as  fair  Italia's  skies, 

Blue  iris  lilies  form  her  bed, 
While,  with  its  crimson  lily,  flies 

The  flag  of  Florence  overhead. 

The  Easter  morn  is  more  than  fair, 
And  all  the  land  in  glory  gleams  ; 

Glad  anthems  fill  and  thrill  the  air 

From  birds  and  bells  and  singing  streams, 

And  from  the  white  cathedrals  where 
The  "City  of  the  Lilies"  dreams. 

This  day  I  know  what  joy  may  be, 
As  in  my  loved  one's  bower  I  bide, 

And  lo  !  the  fairest  flower  to  me 
Of  all  the  flowers  of  Eastertide, 

Is  this  fair  maid  of  Tuscany, 
This  tiger-lily  at  my  side. 


68 


THE  HAPPY  RIVER. 

LJOW  dreamily  the  swift  hours  go  ! 

I  lie  beside  the  Happy  River, 
And  watch  the  vagrant  water's  flow, 

The  pale,  sweet  lilies  nod  and  quiver — 
This  day  when  all  the  June  is  fair 

With  bonnet  blue  and  vesture  vernal, 
With  roses  twining  in  her  hair, 

And  in  her  eyes  a  peace  supernal. 

Oh,  you  who  plod  the  city's  streets, 

And  give  your  lives  to  toil  and  traffic, 
Can  never,  with  the  soul  of  Keats, 

Know  pleasure  so  divine,  seraphic, 
As  I,  who  dream  the  hours  away, 

Where  linnets  sing  and  lilies  quiver, 
In  blushing  June's  embrace,  to-day, 

Upon  the  banks  of  Happy  River. 

The  murmuring  water  soothes  and  calms 
The  soul  that  erst  was  tossed  by  passion 
69 


JSeauj  anfc  JSellea 


Above  me  tender  southern  palms 

Have  spread  their  arms  in  loving  fashion  ; 
My  couch  is  all  of  myrtle  made, 

The  myosotis  blows  me  kisses, 
The  linnet,  from  a  frond-fa9ade, 

Has  set  in  tune  my  own  heart's  blisses. 

The  June  is  young  ;  her  breast  is  warm, 

Her  breath  with  fragrant  blooms  is  laden, 
The  robe  about  her  vestal  form 

Is  sensuous  with  the  sweets  of  Aidenn  ; 
And  ah,  June's  lips  are  red  with  love, 

And  oh,  June's  heart  is  faithless  never, 
I  think  God  made  the  stars  above 

To  crown  my  June  a  queen  forever  ! 

Unknowing  all  of  life's  despair, 

Unconscious  of  the  world's  distresses, 
I  here  repose,  without  a  care, 

Enraptured  by  my  June's  caresses  ; 
I  am  content  with  what  is  best, 

I  praise  and  bless  the  All-wise  Giver, 
My  world  is  where  my  head  doth  rest 

Upon  the  banks  of  Happy  River  ! 


LOVE-NOTES. 


'IX/HEN  I  hear  her  laugh,  I  think 

Of  the  rippling  of  a  brook, 
Starred  with  blooms  along  its  brink. 

When  into  her  eyes  I  look, 
To  my  charmed  sense  arise 
Dreams  of  tender,  sunlit  skies. 

When  she  speaks,  I  hear  the  note 

That  outpours  at  sudden  dawn 

From  the  startled  thrush's  throat. 

When  her  lips  mine  rest  upon, 
All  my  senses  seem  to  reel, 
And  I  know  not  what  I  feel. 

II. 

"  IF  thou  wilt  tell  me,  dear,"  she  said, 
"  How  many  stars  there  be. 
71 


JSeauj  and  JBelles 


I  '11  tell  thee  all  the  golden  thoughts 
I  have  each  night  of  thee." 

"  Oh,  countless,  then,  thy  thoughts,"  I  said 

1 '  Of  thee  I  have  but  one  : 
Merge  all  thy  stars  in  one  great  star 

And  that  is  mine,  the  sun." 


"  O  RAVEN,  why  are  you  silent? 

And  why  do  you  coo,  O  Dove  ?  " 
"  Lo,  one  is  sad,  and  one  is  glad  ; 

For  we  are  the  moods  of  love  !  " 

IV. 

IN  the  deep,  still  garden  close 

She  leaned  to  my  kiss, 
And  hers  the  sweet  shame  of  the  rose 

That  crimsons  in  bliss, 

When  the  Great  Prince  comes  in  his  gold 

From  gardens  above, 
And  the  dewy,  flushed  petals  unfold 

In  fulness  of  love. 

72 


Songs  in  Season 


"  Dear,  thou  art  the  white  rose,"  I  said, 

"  And  Love  is  the  sun  ; 
Is  not  the  rose  happiest  red  ? 

Love's  will  be  done." 

v. 

OH,  June  is  a  sweet,  red  rose, 

With  love  on  its  petal  tips, 
And  June  has  grace  and  a  rare,  fair  face, 

And  a  kiss  on  her  fragrant  lips. 

The  buds  have  burst  with  their  joy, 
The  dumb  stars  dance  their  delight, 

For  I  love  my  June,  and  our  honeymoon 
Shall  last  fore'er  and  a  night ' 


73 


UNDER  A   SUNSHADE. 

C  YES  that  are  languid  and  dreamy, 

Lips  that  are  temptingly  red, 
Cheeks  that  are  dimpled  and  creamy, 

And  tresses  silken  of  thread  — 
(Mine  is  the  chief  of  disgraces, 

Loving  the  vision  I  view  !  ) 
Ah,  't  is  the  fairest  of  faces 

Under  this  shade  of 


Blossoms  that  breathe  of  a  bridal, 

Born  of  the  redolent  night, 
Wafted  of  winds  to  my  idol, 

Just  for  her  dainty  delight. 
(What  if  I  yield  to  temptation? 

Who  could  resist  it  ?    Could  you  ?  ) 
Ah,  what  an  artist's  creation 

Under  this  shade  of  dcru  J 

Truly  a  model  to  measure, 
Fashioned  by  angels  above, 
74 


Songs  in  Season 

Truly  a  poem  of  pleasure, 
Aye,  and  a  lyric  of  love  ! 

(Never  a  time  like  the  present — 
No  one  will  see  if  I  do — ) 

Kissing  's  exceedingly  pleasant 
Under  a  shade  of 


75 


COACHING. 

T^HE  musical  trumpet's  blast, — 

The  sound  of  laughter  gay, — 
Then  word  to  start  is  passed, 
And  the  tally-ho  rolls  away. 

Out  of  the  city's  street, 

Far  from  the  noisy  throng, 
Into  the  country  sweet, 

It  rumbles  gayly  along. 

Over  the  cool  green  hills, 

And  down  through  the  wooded  dales, 
Fragrant  with  daffodils, 

And  vocal  with  calling  quails. 

Happy  each  youthful  face, 

Merry  the  mirthful  wits, 
And  lo  !  in  the  footman's  place, 

Trumpeter  Cupid  sits  ! 


76 


ABOARD   THE  ''BUMBLE   BEE." 

M  OW,  sailor,  spread  your  fleecy  sails, 

And  steer  for  the  open  sea  ; 
There  's  never  a  boat  this  day  afloat, 

As  fair  as  the  Bumble  Bee  ! 
And  Marjorie,  fair  Marjorie, 

Stands  laughing  at  my  side, 
Her  blue  eyes  bright  for  pure  delight 

As  over  the  waves  we  glide  ! 

To-day  we  bid  good-by  to  care, 

And  leave  the  world  behind  ; 
On  such  a  yacht  it  matters  not 

If  never  a  port  we  find  ! 
For  Marjorie,  fair  Marjorie, 

Has  pledged  her  heart  to  me, 
And  where  we  go,  why  care  to  know, 

This  glorious  day  at  sea  ! 

Then,  sailor,  hoist  the  spinnaker, 
And  every  stitch  of  sail, 
77 


JBeauj  and  JBelles 


And  with  a  song  we  '11  fly  along, 
And  kiss  above  the  rail ; 

For  Marjorie,  fair  Marjorie, 
This  day  was  wed  to  me, 

And  so  no  drone  of  a  chaperon 
Is  aboard  the  Bumble  Bee  ! 


PRESSING  AUTUMN   LEAVES. 

'"THE  sumac  glows  a  brilliant  red 

By  tossing  plumes  of  golden-rod  ; 
The  painted  frondage  overhead 

Is  fluttering  downward  to  the  sod  ; 
Last  night  there  was  a  frost  ;  to-day 

The  world  is  full  of  loveliness 
As  through  the  woodland  aisles  we  stray, 

Gathering  leaves  to  press. 

We  loiter  gaily  up  and  down, 

At  every  step  we  find  a  prize  ; 
"  Here 's  one,"  I  say,  "  of  deepest  brown, 

To  match  the  velvet  of  your  eyes  ; 
Here  's  one  of  gold,  to  match  your  hair, 

And  here  is  one  of  scarlet  hue 

To  match  your  lips "   She  cries  :  "  Take 

care  ! 

Base  flatterer,  you  !  " 
79 


and  JBelles 


I  like  the  work  of  pressing  leaves 

With  one  so  fair  as  Rosalie  ; 
What  fine  suggestions  one  receives  ! 

The  which  are  acted  on  by  me. 
I  cannot  tell  just  what  occurs, 

For  that,  dear  me  !  would  not  be  best, 
But  you  can  take  my  word — and  hers — 

More  than  the  leaves  are  pressed  ! 


80 


THE  ARCHERY  MATCH. 

C  HE  fits  the  arrow  to  its  place, 

She  bends  the  bow  with  skill  and  grace, 

The  feathered  shaft  lets  fly  ; 
A  look  of  triumph  lights  her  face, — 

The  score  's  a  tie  ! 

Dan  Cupid,  who  's  a  bowman  true, 
Then  boldly  tries  what  he  can  do 

To  bind  the  tie  fore'er  ; 
Result :  the  world  declares  the  two 

A  well-matched  pair  ! 


81 


BOHEMIA   AND    BOHEA. 

T^HE  witch  who  brewed  with  cunning  art 

Some  draught  of  love  above  a  flame, 
And  chanted  runes  to  charm  the  heart 

Of  false  gallant  or  fickle  dame, 
Had  not  the  wondrous  power,  I  vow, 

Of  magic  and  of  sorcery 
Possessed  by  her  who  charms  me  now — 

The  little  witch  who  brews  me  tea  ! 

'Mid  cushions  made  of  eider-down, 

With  all  the  busy  world  afar, 
I  watch  her,  in  her  pretty  gown, 

Bend  smiling  o'er  the  samovar  ; 
No  incantation  it  receives, 

Her  words  have  naught  of  mystery, 
But  what  a  blissful  spell  she  weaves — 

The  little  witch  who  brews  me  tea  ! 

Ye  gods  that  drank  of  nectar  bright, 
Come  down  and  have  a  cup  or  two, 

82 


Songs  in  Season 


I  think  you  '11  find  the  flavor  right — 
'T  will  seem  like  good  old  times  to  you  ! 

However  happy  up  above, 
Try  once  Bohemia  with  me  ; 

But  I  reserve  the  right  to  love 

The  little  witch  who  brews  me  tea  ! 
Hallowe'en. 


A   LOVERS'   QUARREL. 

( Sonnet.) 
Scene:  The  Library.    Time  :  Christmas  Eve 

GUY  (entreatingly)  : 
And  are  you  angry  still,  my  sweet  Marie? 

MARIE  (coldly) : 
Miss  Marston,  if  you  please — do  not  forget. 

GUY  (bitterly) : 
'T  were  better  far  if  we  had  never  met ! 

MARIE  (cuttingly)  \ 

Quite  true  ;— we  need  not  meet  again,  need 
we? 

GUY  (striding  up  and  down}  : 
I  wish  that  Lovelace  girl  was  lost  at  sea  ! 

MARIE  (sarcastically) : 

How    cruel,   when    last    evening    she    was 
"Pet!" 

GUY  (turning  toward  her) : 
1  did  not  mean  it,  dear — I  much  regret — 
84 


Songs  in  Season 


MARIE  (moving  away)  : 
Shall  you  attend  our  church's  Christmas  tree  ? 

GUY  (suddenly) : 
Who  hung  that  green  upon  the  chandelier  ? 

MARIE  (defiantly)  : 
I  did,  but  be  assured  I  '11  not  go  near  ! 

GUY  (approaching)  : 
Why,  you  are  now — I  warn  you  that — 
MARIE  (holding  her  ground}  : 

Good-by  ! 
GUY  (exultingly) : 

Oh,  no,  sweet !  you  must  pay 

MARIE  (faintly) : 

How  dare  you  ? — Guy  ! 
(  Twenty  minutes  later) : 
You  dear  old  stupid ! — thought  I  did    not 

know 
That  I  was  standing  'neath  the  mistletoe  ! 


85 


THE  SLEIGH  RIDE. 

ATM  HEN  all  the  world  is  robed  in  white 

And  merry  night 
By  moon  and  stars  is  rendered  bright, 

And  everywhere  the  sleighing  bell 

Rings  out  to  tell 
The  tale  that  lovers  love  so  well, 

With  joy  I  capture  pretty  Flo, 

And  off  we  go 
Across  the  glittering  fields  of  snow, 

Our  sleigh  just  large  enough  for  two 

Who  want  to  woo, 
And  keep  unfrozen  while  they  do. 

I  place  my  arm,  in  comic  haste, 

About  her  waist, 
And  find  her  lips  just  to  my  taste. 

She  shows  no  traces  of  alarm, 

For  what  's  the  harm  ? 
Thus  on  we  speed  past  cot  and  farm. 
86 


Songs  in  Season 

How  swiftly  now  the  moments  fly  ! 

The  miles  go  by, 
We  notice  not  the  darkening  sky. 

Heigho  !  what  now  ?    'Mid  laugh  and  shout 

We  're  tumbled  out, 
The  snow  is  cool,  beyond  a  doubt  ! 

We  climb  again  into  the  sleigh, 

Then  in  dismay 
We  quickly  learn  we  've  lost  our  way  ! 

Yes,  lost  our  way  ;  alas,  alack, 

We  can't  go  back — 
Down  comes  a  storm  upon  our  track  ! 

In  yonder  cottage  shines  a  light — 

It 's  hardly  right, 
But  there  we  '11  have  to  spend  the  night. 

And  who  should  answer  at  the  door 

But  Parson  Bore, 
Who  's  oft  seen  runaways  before. 

And — well,  I  don't  know  what  is  said, 

But  all  turn  red, 
And  Flo  and  I,  we — just  get  wed  ! 

87 


SKATING  SONG. 

AS  swift  and  light  as  a  bird  in  flight 

She  skims  o'er  the  glistening  lake, 
And  her  skates  keep  time  in  a  merry  chime 

To  the  music  her  red  lips  make  ; 
Stray  snowflakes  fly  from  the  frosty  sky, 

Caressing  her  cheeks  and  hair  ; 
While  sweet  and  strong  in  a  skating  song 
Her  voice  rings  on  the  air  : 

Glow,  moon,  glow, 

And  twinkle,  stars,  on  high; 
Blow,  winds,  blow, 

As  over  the  ice  we  fly  ! 
Blow  high — blow  low — 

No  lass  is  cold  with  a  lover  bold, 
Heigho  !     Heigho  ! 

With  a  swinging  stride  I  gain  her  side, 
And  gather  her  hand  in  mine  ; 
88 


Songs  in  Season 

And  I  shout  aloud  to  the  jocund  crowd 

A  challenge  they  can't  decline. 
Hurrah  for  the  race  !     We  set  the  pace, 

With  never  a  slip  or  fall, 
And  a  click  and  a  clash  as  our  runners  flash 

Far  in  advance  of  all ! 

Hurrah  !    Well  done  !     The  race  is  won  ! 

No  further  the  need  for  haste  ; 
Then  her  roguish  glance  betrays  the  chance, 

And  my  arm  steals  round  her  waist. 
Oh,  such  the  delight  of  a  winter's  night, 

When  the  course  is  clear  and  long  ; 
And  the  skates  keep  time  in  a  merry  chime 

To  the  rollicking  skating  song  : 

Glow,  moon,  glow, 

And  twinkle,  stars,  on  high  ; 
Blow,  winds,  blow, 

As  over  the  ice  we  fly  ! 
Blow  high — blow  low — 

No  lass  is  cold  with  a  lover  bold, 
Heigho  !    Heigho  ! 


89 


FOR  VALENTINE. 


shall  he  send  for  valentine? 
A  rose,  a  verse  entitled   "Mine"- 
A  song  of  love,  a  bleeding  heart, 
Pierced  by  a  deadly  Cupid's  dart  — 
A  fan  of  rare  old  lace  from  France, 
Like  La  Valliere  used  in  the  dance  — 
A  dainty  ivory  miniature 
Of  Louis  Quinze  or  Pompadour  — 
A  gemmed  aigrette  that  she  may  wear 
To  crown  the  splendor  of  her  hair  — 
A  buckle,  filigreed  and  chased, 
To  clasp  the  belt  about  her  waist  — 
A  bonbonniere  —  a  case  for  cards  — 
A  book  inscribed  "  With  best  regards"  — 
Which  best  would  please  the  maid  divine  ? 
What  shall  he  send  for  valentine  ? 

If  best  the  maiden  he  would  please, 
He  should,  perhaps,  send  all  of  these  ; 
But  no  !     He  '11  send  (his  purse  is  flat) 
A  kiss,  and  let  it  go  at  that  ! 


90 


HEIRLOOMS. 

'"THIS  ivory  casket,  jewel  set, 

That  grandma  cherished  to  the  last 
In  satin  sweet  with  mignonette, 

Contains  the  treasures  of  her  past. 
She  was  a  famous  belle  when  young — 

For  she  herself  has  told  me  so — 
And  when  her  wedding  chimes  were  rung 

Full  many  a  heart  was  wrung  with  woe. 

I  lift  the  lid  and  scan  them  o'er — 

Dear  souvenirs  ! — with  reverent  gaze  ; 
It  is  like  opening  the  door 

Of  grandma's  heart  in  other  days. 
If  each  could  tell  its  own  sweet  tale  ! 

But  all  are  silent  now  as  she, 
And  darkness  shrouds  the  narrow  vale 

'Twixt  memory  and  mystery. 

Here  is  the  chain  that  round  her  throat 
Was  fastened  at  the  king's  command  ; 


JSeauj  an&  JBelles 

Here  is  the  letter  grandpa  wrote 
When  he  besought  her  for  her  hand  ; 

Here  is  the  locket,  pierced,  that  chanced 
To  save  him  from  a  British  gun, 

And  here  a  glove,  worn  when  she  danced 
The  minuet  with  Washington. 

I  know  no  more ;  I  only  know 

She  loved  each  one  as  some  old  friend, 
And  that,  because  she  willed  it  so, 

I,  too,  shall  guard  them  to  the  end. 
She  gave  no  gold  to  mine  or  me, 

But  left,  instead,  a  heavy  debt 
Of  love,  that  keeps  her  memory 

As  fragrant  as  the  mignonette. 
February  22. 


IVORY   MINIATURES. 

(SONNETS.) 


93 


AN    IVORY   MINIATURE. 

1 F  Karl  Huth  wrought  of  old  with  greater 

grace, 

Or  with  a  skill  more  marvelous  and  rare, 
'T  was  not  because  inspired  by  one  more 

fair, 

Or  one  of  more  divinity  of  face. 
Some  cunning  master  hand  that  thrilled  to 

trace 

The  beauty  of  Dubarry  and  Valliere, 
When  Watteau  reigned,  and  France  had 

not  a  care, 
By  this  may  well  have  won  immortal  place. 

Within  its  dainty  frame  oijleur-de-lys, 

The  crossed  white  lilies  of  the  Bourbon 

lance, 
It  seems  to  speak,  with  dreaming  eyes,  to  me 

Of  all  the  vanished  glories  of  romance, 
Of  days  when  kings  held  court  beneath  a 

tree, 

And  nights  when  Love  was  conqueror  of 
France  ! 


95 


WHITE. 

I  IKE  pure  white  rose-leaves  are  her  cheeks 

in  hue  ; 

Of  snowy  velvet  is  her  sumptuous  gown, 
Lace   garnitured   and   edged  with   eider 
down  ; 
Upon  her  throat  pearls  gleam  like  sun-kissed 

dew  ; 
Her  ermine  cloak  half  hides  a  white  suede 

shoe, 

While  valley  lilies  and  white  violets  crown 
The  splendor  of  her  beauty,   whose   re 
nown 
Is  great  as  that  which  Titian's  models  knew. 

As  slowly  she  descends  the  marble  stair, 
A  radiant  vision  in  the  brilliant  light, 
She  looks  like  some  white  statue  fraught 

with  breath ; 
And  I,  who  marvel  she  can  be  so  fair, 

Know  that  her  vestal  soul  is  just  as  white, 
And  that  she  will  be  faithful  unto  death. 


96 


POTPOURRI. 

A   QUAINT  old  jar  of  flowered  cloisonne, 
That  cost  a  fortune  in  Satsuma's  mart, 
And  long  and  patient  vassalage  to  art, 
Has  graced  her  mantel,  lo,  this  many  a  day. 
And  since  that  rapturous  night  long  passed 

away 
When  first  she  played  the  debutante's  shy 

part, 

The  roses  she  has  worn  above  her  heart 
Have   found   repose   within    this   lacquered 
clay. 

O  fragrance  of  unnumbered  happy  nights  ! 

What  memories  of  conquest  you  recall, 
Of  merry  throngs,  of  music  and  of  lights, 
Of  smiles  and  whispered  vows  when  love 

was  all  ! 

Ah,  faded  petals  of  her  heart's  delights, 
Dropped  one  by  one  since  that  first  perfect 
ball! 


97 


THE  BRIDE. 

A  S  snowy  white  and  cold  as  edelweiss, 

That    blooms    in    solitude   on    Alpine 

steeps, 
Or    in    the   solemn    Schwarzwald's  silent 

deeps, 
She  looks,  in  truth,  like  some  fair  flower  of 

ice, 
As  to  the  altar  of  her  sacrifice 

The  measure  of  the  melody  she  keeps, 

Impassive,  while  her  rebel  spirit  weeps 

Like  some  lost  soul  barred  out  of  Paradise. 

Then  as  she  hears  the  sacred  service  read, 
"  Whom  God  hath  joined     .     .     .     "  the 

mockery  of  it  all 

Brings  to  her  lips  a  smile  of  utter  woe  ; 
She  dreams  this  is  her  funeral  day  instead, 
And  that  her  bridal  raiment  is  a  pall ; 
The  envious  world  applauds,  and  does 
not  know. 


98 


SPRING  IN  TUSCANY. 

*THE  hills  are  sown  with  stars  of  cyclamen, 
And  dew-gemmed  cups  of  wild  anem 
ones, 

And  near  and  far  the  gold  acacia  bees 
Drone  drowsy  answer  to  the  lark  and  wren, 
And  to  the  happy  songs  of  maids  and  men, 
While  through  the  laurel  and  the  myrtle 

trees 
Gleam  dreamy  vistas  of  blue,  sun-kissed 

seas, 
And  all  the  Land  of  Love  is  glad  again. 

Like  Virgil,  chanting  strophes  to  the  skies, 
In  pillowed  ease  on  blooms  of  asphodel, 
Beneath  the  lattice  of  a  bowered  tourelle 

I  lie  content,  and  feast  my  happy  eyes  ; 

Ah,  surely,  surely,  this  is  Paradise  !     .     .     . 
Yet  where  is  Dante,  and  where  Raffaelle  ? 


99 


THE  ARTIST. 

LJ  E  wrought  with  patience  long  and  weary 

years 

Upon  his  masterpiece,  entitled  "  Fate," 
And  dreamed  sweet  dreams,  the  while  his 

crust  he  ate, 

And  gave  his  work  his  soul,  his  strength,  and 
tears. 

His  task  complete  at  last,  he  had  no  fears 
The  world  would  not  pronounce  his  genius 

great, 
But  poor,  unknown — pray,  what  could  he 

create  ? 

The  mad  world  laughed,  and  gave  not  praise, 
but  jeers. 

Impelled  to  ask  wherein  his  work  was  wrong, 
He  sought,  despairing,  one  whose  art  was 
dead, 

100 


Kvotg  AMniatures 

But  on  whose  brow  were  wreathed  the 

bays  of  Fame  ; 

The  master  gazed  upon  the  picture  long  ; 
"  It  lacks  one  thing  to  make  it  great,"  he 

said, 
And  signed  the  canvas  with  his  own  great 


101 


IDENTIFIED. 

A   SLEEPING  sylphid  one  fair  day  I  found 
In  Daphne's  fragrant  bowers  (the  Poet 

saith), 

Most  strangely  like  my  own  Elizabeth, 
And  with  her  hair  in  wreaths  of  roses  bound. 

So  tranquil  her  repose,  so  sweet,  profound, 
But  for  the  soft  susurrus  of  her  breath, 
I  should  have  deemed  such  perfect  peace 
was  death, 

And  flung  myself,  despairing,  to  the  ground. 

So  strangely  like  my  own  sweet  love  was  she, 
I  bent  and  kissed  her  red  lips  o'er  and  o'er, 

As  flowers  are  sipped  of  honey  by  the  bee, 
And  spoke  the  name  of  her  I  most  adore  ; 

She  oped  her  eyes,  and  smiling  up  at  me, 
Exclaimed  in  rapture  :    "  Please  do  that 
some  more  ! " 


102 


IN  SEVILLE. 

"THE  earth  is  bathed  in  fragrance  of   the 

moon, 

Seville  is  drunken  with  the  sweets  of  sleep, 
But  one,  a  pretty  youth,  doth  vigil  keep 

Beside  love's  lattice  with  guitar  in  tune. 

He  sings  a  strain,  melodious  and  sweet, 
To  wake  his  love,  who  comes  with  greetings 

warm, 
A  pale  mantilla  round  her  queenly  form, 

And  broidered  brodequins  upon  her  feet. 

Her  lips  meet  his  in  breathless,  swift  caress  ; 
They  see  not  jealous,  gleaming  eyes  that 

peer 

From  out  the  shadows  of  the  cypress  near, 
Nor  hear  the  oath  two  savage  lips  express  ; 
But  when  at  morn  she  seeks  the  scented 

shade, 

She   finds  him    prostrate,   in    his    breast    a 
blade  ! 


103 


THE  BALLET  DANCER. 

(BY  A  JOHNNY.) 

J^ITHE-LIMBED    and    lissome  and    all 

lovely  she, 

Swift-footed  as  a  gleam  of  glancing  light, 
Bare-bosomed,    and  with  glittering  gems 
bedight, 

And  garbed  in  snowy  gauze  to  shapely  knee, 

She  sweeps  and  swings  to  luring  melody, 
In  graceful  pirouettes  of  dazzling  white, 
While  I— cannot  believe  her  human  quite, 

And  lean  and  look,  and  marvel  as  I  see. 

0  flitting  fairy  of  another  world, 
Ethereal  creature  of  a  sylphic  sphere  ; 

Wilt  leave  me  now  with  brain  so  dazed  and 

whirled, 
And  angelwise,  soar  off  and  disappear  ? 

1  will  not  from  my  heaven  thus  be  hurled  ! 

I  '11  meet  you  later  and  we  '11  have  a  beer. 


104 


FANCY  A-WING. 


105 


IN  ITALIA. 

/*"*  OLD  dawn  'twixt  Alps  and  Appenines  ! 
Gold  dawn  on  vales  and  olive  trees, 

And  pent  in  golden  celandines, 

Blown  sweet  by  winds  from  southern  seas  ! 

Birds  chant  their  matins  to  the  skies, 
Perched  high  on  old  castello  walls, 
And  everywhere  the  sunlight  falls 

Glad  anthems  and  hosannas  rise  ! 

Across  the  flower-bespangled  grass 

She  walks  amid  the  peasant  throng, 
With  lifted  face  to  morning  mass, 

Outpouring  all  her  soul  in  song. 
White  arum-lilies  deck  her  breast, 

And  for  her  vestal's  diadem, 
Upon  her  flowing  tresses  rest 

Some  stainless  stars  of  Bethlehem. 

Dim  clouds  of  gold  and  amethyst 
Across  the  azure  zenith  creep, 
107 


3Beauj  anD  Belles 


And  vanish  in  the  golden  mist, 
Like  white  feluccas  on  the  deep. 

High  noon  'twixt  purple  peaks  and  sea, 
And  silence,  save  for  cooing  doves, 
As  lovely  as  the  painted  Loves 

Of  Orpheus  and  Eurydice. 

She  lingers  in  the  scented  shades 

To  eat  her  figs  and  drink  her  milk, 
The  fairest  of  the  Tuscan  maids, 

With  dreaming  eyes  and  hair  of  silk , 
With  lips  as  red  as  tulip-bells 

Amidst  the  maize  in  time  of  May, 
And  fragrant  as  the  asphodels 

That  bloom  where  Dante  sleeps  for 
aye. 

The  vesper  chimes  have  ceased  to  ring, 
The  gold  has  changed  to  silver  light, 

And  Philomel  begins  to  sing 
Gay  ritornellos  to  the  night ; 

In  vine-hung  ways  are  heard  guitars, 
And  youthful  laughter,  low  and  sweet, 
And  love-words,  never  obsolete, 

Low-murmured  to  the  witness  stars. 
1 08 


Beneath  the  silvered  lichen  leaves 

She  lifts  her  lips  for  his  caress, 
With  love  that  dies  not,  nor  deceives, 

And  knows  no  law  but  happiness  ; 
'  T  was  love  like  this  that  Sappho  sung 

On  Lesbian  hills  long,  long  ago, 
And  that,  when  Italy's  art  was  young, 

Was  known  to  Michael  Angelo  ! 


109 


AHOLABEH. 

\A7HERE  cool  Rohini's  waters  flow 

From  haunts  in  Himalayan  shades 
To  Gunga's  sacred  tide  below, 

Through  gardens  and  resplendent  glades, 
Wherein  gay  sunbirds  whirr  and  swing 
From  flower  to  flower  on  tireless  wing, 
And  golden  orioles  tilt  and  sing 

Of  love  through  all  the  day, — 
The  Sakya  Rose  is  blossoming, 
Aholabeh  ! 

Aholabeh  !  a  hope  attained  ! 

A  rose-white  Princess  passing  fair  ; 
Her  small,  soft  hands  are  henna-stained, 

A  garland  binds  her  scented  hair  ; 
Her  soorma-lustred  lashes  seek 
To  veil  the  love  that  burns  her  cheek, ' 
The  love  too  great  for  lips  to  speak, 

And  strong  to  live  alway  ; 
no 


For  kissing  them  thy  gods  grow  weak, 
Aholabeh  ! 

Tall  Prince,  whose  kriss  is  keen  to  kill 
The  tiger  crouched  in  kusa-grass, 

Not  Krishna  thou,  to  have  thy  will 
At  sylvan  sport  with  her,  and  pass  ; 

No  gift  of  fruits  or  frankincense, 

Of  champak,  musk,  or  ornaments 

Of  nakre  or  of  gold,  contents, 
But  faith  of  thee  for  aye  ; 

All  pride  in  meek  magnificence, 
Aholabeh ! 

Then  build  thy  house  of  ganthi-flowers, 

Set  stolen  stars  against  their  blue, 
Build  heaven  for  her  in  earthly  bowers, 

And  sheathe  thy  sword  if  thou  wouldst  woo. 
Lo,  in  the  garden  of  her  sire 
She  waits  for  thee  in  bride's  attire, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  lips  of  fire, 

The  Light  of  Himalay, 
The  soul  of  all  the  world's  desire, 
Aholabeh  ! 


in 


IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

TTHE  sweet  Loch  Lomond  finds  a  bed 

Within  the  Highlands'  warm  embrace 
Ben  Lomond  lifts  his  tawny  head 

To  kiss  the  harvest  moon's  fair  face  ; 
The  flowering  fields  look  up  in  love 
To  all  the  amorous  stars  above. 

Oh,  pluck  some  purple  ling  for  me, 
And  one  white  daisy  bring  for  me, 
And  sing  for  me,  and  sing  for  me, 
"  Glenogie"  and  "Prince  Charlie!" 

A  perfect  peace  lies  on  the  moor, 
The  tender  myrtle  drapes  the  dune, 

And  Philomel's  sweet  overture 

Has  set  the  banks  and  braes  in  tune  ; 

All  Scotland  is  a  bonnie  bride, 

Whose  dreamful  sighs  her  joys  confide. 

How  gude  to  hear  the  skirl  o'  pipes 
O'er  bracken,  burn,  and  barley, 
112 


When  Donald  plays  and  Janet  sings 
"  Glenogie  "  and  "Prince  Charlie  ! " 

By  limpid  lake  half  hid  from  light, 
Embowered  by  the  heather  blooms, 

My  Highland  lassie  sits  to-night 

And  quaffs  with  me  the  night's  perfumes, 

Her  soul  and  mine  in  harmony 

With  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see. 

' '  Threescore  o  nobles  rode  up  the  king's  ha\ 
But  bonnie  Glenogie  's  the  pride  o1  them  a1 , 
Wi'  his  milk-white  steed  and  his  bonnie  black 

e'e  ; 
Glenogie,  dear  mither,  Glenogie  for  me  !  " 

With  eyes  more  soft  than  eyes  of  dove, 
And  breath  more  sweet  than  whin  or  thyme, 

She  lifts  her  lips  in  languid  love, 
And  with  my  lips  constructs  a  rhyme  ; — 

How  wondrous  is  a  wistful  word 

With  earth  and  sky  in  rapt  accord  ! 

"  /'//  to  Lochiel,  and  Appin,  and  kneel  to 

them, 

Down  by  Lord  Murray  and  Roy  of  Kil- 
darlie  : 


anD  Belles 


Brave  Mackintosh,  he  shall  fly  to  the  field '  wi1 

them, — 

These   are   the   lads   I  can   trust  w?  my 
Charlie  !  " 

Ah,  ne'er  shall  wane  this  harvest  moon, 
This  night  of  nights  shall  last  for  aye, 

And  though  I  know  a  Spain's  hot  noon, 
Or  in  the  Northland  have  my  day, 

Ben  Lomond  still  will  tower  above, 

My  lassie  kiss  my  lips  in  love. 

"  Down  thro1  the  Lowlands,  down   wV    the 

Whigamore, 
Loyal  true   Highlanders,  down   wi'  them 

rarely  ! 
Ronald  and  Donald,  drive  on  wi'  the  broad 

claymore 

Over  the  necks  J  the  foes  o'  Prince  Charlie  ! 
Follow  thee  !  follow  thee  !  wha  wadna  follow 

thee, 

Kingo*  the  Highland  hearts,  bonnie  Prince 
Charlie  !  " 


114 


THE  HOMESICK  WANDERER. 

("^H,  for  a  breath  of  bracken  and  heather, 
As  up  from  the  south  the  spring  comes 

by! 
Oh,  for  a  walk  in  the  glad  warm  weather, 

Under  the  blue  of  Scotland's  sky  ! 
Oh,  for  the  sound  of  the  laughing  waters, 

Kissing  the  Highlands'  crags  of  gray, 
And    a    sight    of    the    fairest    of    Scotia's 

daughters — 
The  lass  that  loved  me  in  Colonsay  ! 

"  Fhir  a  bhata  !  Fhir  a  bhata  !  " 
/  can  hear  the  boatmen  singing, 
In  my  ears  the  pipes  are  ringing, 

"  Fhir  a  bhata  !  Fare  thee  -well  !  " 

Oh,  to  live  over  the  olden  story, 
Told  of  bonnie  and  braw  McPhail, 

Who  left  the  Isle  for  the  fields  of  glory, 
Bearing  the  ruby  that  would  not  pale, 
"5 


36eau£  and 


Would  not  change  till  she  that  waited 
Proved  untrue  and  drifted  away, 

And  joy  was  theirs  when  the  two  were  mated, 
And  he  was  the  hero  of  Colonsay  ! 

"  Fhir  a  bhata  !  Fhir  a  bhata  !  " 
'  T  was  the  last  sweet  sound,  I  mind  me, 
Heard  as  Ulva  paled  behind  me, — 

"  Fhir  a  bhata  !  Fare  thee  well !  " 

How  would  it  be  with  the  nameless  rover, 

After  his  years  on  the  barren  main  ? 
Never  may  he  live  the  old  tale  over, — 

All  his  battles  have  been  in  vain  ; 
Sadly  my  eyes  in  the  moonlight  glisten, 

Heavy  my  heart  through  the  weary  day, 
As  ever  and  ever  I  seem  to  listen 

To  voices  behind  me  in  Colonsay. 

"  Fhir  a  bhata  !  Fhir  a  bhata  !  " — 
And  that  sound  of  boatmen  singing 
In  my  ears  will  e'er  be  ringing, — 

"  Fhir  a  bhata  !     Fare  thee  well !  " 


116 


HAFIZ. 


TX7HEN  Hafiz  sang  in  Samarcand, 

Through  tender  twilights,  sweet  with 

balm, 
Trooped  star-eyed  youths  and  maids  to  hear, 

And  woo  'neath  citron-tree  and  palm  ; 
The  nightingales  were  awed  and  mute  ; 

Peace  brooded  over  all  the  skies  ; 
And  sweeter  than  a  magic  lute 

His  glad  notes  rang,  or  broke  in  sighs. 
The  spell  of  love  was  on  the  land 
When  Hafiz  sang  in  Samarcand. 

II. 

Where  Hafiz  sleeps  by  bastioned  walls 
The  poppies  set  the  fields  in  flame  ; 

White  asphodels  above  his  breast 
Speak  silently  his  sacred  name  ; 
117 


and  3Belles 


In  rose-wreathed   bowers   rough  songs   are 
heard, 

And  ribald  laughter  over  wine,; 
A  ruffian  slays,  for  one  mad  word, 

His  rival  at  a  wanton's  shrine. 
Then  in  the  dusk  sad  silence  falls 
Where  Hafiz  sleeps  by  bastioned  walls. 


118 


CHRYSANTHEMUM. 

CHRYSANTHEMUMS!     In    dear    old 
V> 

days 

When  I  was  such  a  happy  man, 
And  wandered  in  the  pleasant  ways, 

I  once  sojourned  in  far  Japan  ; 
Where  Ti  Turn,  of  the  satin  eyes 

And  luring  grace,  each  morn  would  come 
To  bring  me  (ah  !  the  sweet  surprise  !) 

A  Japanese  chrysanthemum  ! 

My  musmee  knew  my  every  wish  ; 

How  charmingly  she  served  me  tea, 
With  her  own  picture  on  the  dish, — 

Less  sweet  and  dainty,  though,  than  she  ; 
And  when  I  gave  a  kiss  for  this 

In  token  of  reward,  Ti  Turn 
Gave  me  another  soon — that  is, 

A  Japanese  chrysanthemum  ! 

We  lounged  for  long  in  fields  of  flowers, 
We  sat  together  in  the  shade  ; 
119 


JBeauj  anD  belles 


I  ne'er  have  known  such  happy  hours 
As  those  for  me  my  musmee  made. 

'T  was  an  ideal  life  to  lead  ! — 
Of  all  delights  the  very  sum  ! 

And  she  was  fair — herself,  indeed, 
A  Japanese  chrysanthemum  ! 

And  when  the  dreamer  ceased  to  dream, 

And  all  his  idols  turned  to  clay, 
No  after  joys  could  e'er  redeem 

The  hours  his  musmee  laughed  away. 
And  did  I  leave  her  in  Japan  ? 

And  did  she  not  my  own  become  ? 
I  have  her  still — upon  a  fan  ! — 

My  Japanese  chrysanthemum  ! 

So  you  may  wear  the  flower  you  choose, 

The  pink  or  pansy,  rue  or  rose, 
But  pardon  if  I  've  different  views, 

In  memory  I  this  one  chose  ; 
Not  for  its  fragance  do  I  care, 

'T  is  not  so  beautiful  as  some, 
But  I  am  quite  content  to  wear 

A  Japanese  chrysanthemum  ! 


120 


FELICIA  OF  MEXICO. 

r\  ARK  as  the  dawn  on  the  still,  wide  water, 

When  the  fog  and  the  mist  hang  low, 
Was  the  face  of  the  Southland's  beautiful 

daughter, 

Little  Felicia  of  Mexico  ; 
Aye,  as  the  languorous  dusks  and  olden 

Over  the  Guadalquiver's  tide, 
But  bright  her  eyes  as  the  starlight  golden 
The  night  in  the  Southland  glorified. 

Sweet  as  the  breath  of  the  myosotis, 

Little  Felicia's  lips,  and  red  ; 
Born  was  she  of  love  and  the  lotus, 

Deep  in  June  in  a  peri's  bed. 
Stole  from  the  Sun  his  warmth  and  languor, 
Stole  from  the  flowers  their  beauty  and 

sweet, 

Leavened  her  love  with  a  spirit  of  anger, 
Learned   of  a  cougar  that  played  at  her 
feet. 

121 


anD  belles 


Little  Felicia—  the  saints  befriend  her  !— 

Lost  her  heart  in  an  evil  hour, 
Loved  with  a  love  that  was  true  and  tender, 

And  joy  was  all  of  her  bridal  dower. 
Where  was  the  Sun  with  protecting  favor  ? 

Where  was  the  cougar  with  deadly  claws  ? 
Ay  de  mi  !  there  was  none  to  save  her,  — 

Well  had  she  died  in  the  cougar's  jaws  ! 

Down  by  the  sea  where  the  soft  warm  water 

Kisses  the  banks  with  murmurous  sighs, 
Perished  the  Southland's  beautiful  daughter, 

Canopied  only  by  peaceful  skies  ; 
But  ah  !  not  alone,  for  lo  !  beside  her 

He  who  had  wooed  her  and  wrought  her 

woe 

Lay   dead   from   the   sting   of  the   Spanish 
spider,  — 

Little  Felicia  of  Mexico  ! 


122 


VARIA 


123 


LAY  OF  THE  MODERN  MINSTREL. 

I  DO  not  sing  the  martyred  brave, 
Who  dared  and  died  for  liberty, 
Nor  those  who  breasted  wind  and  wave 

To  win  a  world  across  the  sea  ; 
Nor  yet  the  knights  of  olden  days, 

Whose   name  and  fame  were   England's 

pride, 

Whose  valor  poets  vied  to  praise, 
And  every  victory  glorified. 

I  do  not  sing  the  fair  and  fond, 

Whose  charms  both  king  and  slave  have 

sung, 
Whose  sceptre,  Love,  since  being  dawned, 

Has  swayed  the  hearts  of  old  and  young  ; 
Nor  is  my  lyre  attuned  to  laud 

The  worth  of  wealth,  or  wit,  or  wine, 
Which  shallow  sonneteers  applaud 

At  ten  or  twenty  cents  a  line. 
125 


and  JBelles 


I  do  not  sing  of  snow  nor  spring, 

Of  flowery  fields,  nor  moonlit  glades, 
Of  birds  that  whirl  on  tireless  wing 

Through     all    the    summer's    lights    and 

shades  ; 
Of  none  of  these  ;  they  're  out  of  date  ; 

I  've  laid  them  all  upon  the  shelf  ; 
My  theme  is  one  of  greater  weight  — 

I  sing  of  nothing  but  Myself  ! 


126 


TO  EMMA  EAMES. 

TTHOU  conquerest  all  our  hearts,  and  then 

Bidst  us  adieu  for  larger  spheres  ; 
We  can  but  say  :  "  Auf  wiedersehen, 
Come  back  to  us  in  future  years  ! " 

Auf  wiedersehen  !     But  ere  the  sea 
Has  borne  thee  from  us  for  long  days, 

A  farewell  gift  I  bring  to  thee — 
A  simple  wreath  of  honest  praise. 

No  frankincense,  or  myrrh,  or  gold, 
No  songs  like  the  immortal  Keats'  ; 

But  flowers  that  you  may  kiss  and  hold — 
A  wreath  of  tender  marguerites. 

How  often,  in  a  careless  hour, 

I  've  looked  at  lilies,  musingly, 
And  thought :  "  Had  lilies  voice  of  power, 
How  wondrous    sweet    that   voice  would 
be  !" 

127 


3S6eau$  and  JBelles 


And  when  I  heard  thee,  flower  of  youth, 
With  all  thy  sweetness,  grace,  and  art, 

Lo  !  't  was  the  lily's  voice,  in  truth, 
And  still  it  echoes  in  my  heart. 

I  place  my  garland  at  thy  feet — 
A  grateful  gift — with  eyes  still  wet 

With  tears  for  gentle  Marguerite, 
For  Eha  and  for  Juliette  ! 

May,  i8q2. 


128 


NO.  10,  ARCADY. 

"T  IS  no  design  of  mine,  God  wot, 

That  I  should  be  forever  "  broke," 
But  there  's  a  time  I  envy  not 

The  best  that  comes  to  wealthy  folk  ; 
'T  is  when,  at  Mistress  Polly's  board — 

You  know  the  house,  10,  Arcady — 
I  share  with  other  guests  her  hoard 
Of  bread,  and  cheese,  and  beer — and  glee. 

We  gather  there  on  Sunday  nights, 

A  jolly  crowd  of  eight  or  nine, 
And  all  have  healthy  appetites, 

Since  most  of  us  forget  to  dine. 
Then  what  a  feast  awaits  our  eyes  ! 

There 's  everything  the  heart  can  wish  ; 
The  world  is  just  the  shape  and  size 

Of  Mistress  Polly's  charing  dish  ! 

I  never  yet  have  understood 

The  source  of  Mistress  Polly's  art, 
129 


JBeauj  anfc  belles 


And  why  her  rarebits  are  so  good 
They  never  fail  to  reach  the  heart. 

I  've  supped  at  times — say  once  or  twice — 
With  big-bugs  at  Delmonico's, 

But  things  have  never  tasted  nice — 
Just  why,  Magician  Polly  knows. 

Come  round  some  time  to  No.  10, 

And  be  bohemian — what  say  ? 
You  '11  find  no  place  that 's  better  when 

You  want  to  drive  dull  care  away. 
Bring  all  your  jokes  and  funny  things 

To  add  to  Mistress  Polly's  cheer  ; 
We  '11  have  a  banquet  fit  for  kings 

Of  toasted  bread,  and  cheese,  and  beer  ! 


130 


A  PREDICAMENT. 

C  HE  is  very  dear  to  me, 

She  is  all  the  world,  I  ween, 
What  think  you  her  name  may  be  ? — 
Josephine  ! 

You  would  guess  it  by  her  looks. 
You  would  know  it  by  her  air, 
She  is  like  the  girls  in  books — 
Very  fair  ! 

You  cannot  resist  surprise 

When  you  're  told  this  fairy  queen 
Has  the  sweetest  hazel  eyes 
Ever  seen  ! 

And  you  will  rejoice  to  know 

That  her  cheeks  were  made  to  bite, 
That  her  skin  is  like  the  snow, 
Soft  and  white. 

And  her  lips  are  full  and  red, 
Like  the  berries  of  the  mead  ; 
131 


anfc  JBelles 


"  None  but  you  I  '11  kiss,"  she  said, 
"  No,  indeed  !" 

But  this  witch  is  full  of  guile, 
For  she  added,  not  in  fun, 
'  '  Even  you  must  wait  awhile, 
Till  we  're  one  !  " 

Did  the  like  you  ever  hear 

Since  your  great-grandmamma's  day, 
When  all  girls  were  prudes,  I  fear  ?  — 
Did  you,  say  ? 

Tell  me,  please,  what  I  'm  to  do, 

To  my  prayers  she  will  not  hark  ; 
Shall  I  die  and  go  straight  to  -  ? 
(Question  mark  !  ) 

Ah,  there  's  little  hope  for  me, 
So  why  rail  at  unkind  fate  ? 
Maybe  your  advice  would  be,  — 
Simply  wait! 

But  I  cannot  well  comply, 

So  she  never  can  be  mine, 
For  she  's  only  six,  and  I  — 
Sixty-nine  ! 
132 


NOCTURNE. 

MOONLIGHT,  and  the  madness  thereof, 

and  the  love  ; 
Moonlight  and  peace  below,  and  moonlight 

and  peace  above  ; 
The  trees  have  sighed  and  are  silent,  the  seas 

have  sunk  into  sleep, 
And  who  that  looks  in  the  sky's  fair  face 

could  think  that  the  sky  could  weep  ? 


133 


"I  LOVE  YOU." 

LJ  OW  many  fleet,  sweet  years  have  passed 

Since  that  glad  hour  she  deigned  to  say — 
Hath  time  been  slow,  hath  time  been  fast  ? 

Men  live  a  lifetime  in  a  day. 
I  still  can  feel  her  hand  in  mine, 

Her  warm  caress  in  swift  delight, — 
How  many  years  ?     Hath  time  no  sign  ? 

Or  did  it  all  occur  last  night  ? 

Last  night  !   It  seems  a  faint,  sweet  dream  ! 

Last  night !     And  I  have  not  grown  gray 
I  feel  the  thrill,  the  joy  supreme 

I  knew  when  first  I  heard  her  say — 
Cold — is  it  cold  ?     I  did  not  know  ; 

I  thought  the  blast  a  tender  tune, 
I  saw  the  falling  flakes  of  snow, 
But  thought  them  blossoms  of  the  June. 

Stand  closer,  for  mine  eyes  grow  dim, 
Perhaps,  who  knows  ?  the  end  is  near  ; 
134 


IDaria 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  him 

Her  three  words  gave  a  life-time's  cheer. 
Last  night !     I  hear  the  music  yet, 

I  kiss  her  lips,  I  hear  her  say — 
God,  tell  me,  does  a  soul  forget 

When  it  goes  forth  to  endless  day  ? 


135 


THE  SCRIBE'S  SWEETHEART. 

Q  FLATTERING  tongue  of  fair  Susanne! 

She  calls  my  poems  "  pipes  of  Pan," 
She  laughs  at  all  my  jokes,  and  sees 
In  each  some  wondrous  qualities  ; 
To  her  my  stories  are  the  best 
With  which  the  world  was  ever  blest ; 
My  books,  she  says,  should  all  be  found 
In  every  house  above  the  ground  ; 
In  short,  I  'm  Byron,  Tennyson, 
And  Swift  and  Shakespeare  all  in  one  ! 

Ah,  flattering  tongue  of  fair  Susanne  ! 
If  she  were  but  the  editor  man  ! 


136 


FAIRY  TALES. 


on  a  time  !  "  O  magic  phrase, 
That  brought  the  light  to  eager  eyes 
In  careless  childhood's  golden  days, 

When  we  were  happy  and  unwise  ! 
When  gnomes  and  giants,  sylphs  and  sprites, 

Abode  in  towers  and  forests  grand, 

In  that  old  realm  of  youth's  delights, 

The  wondrous  realm  of  Fairy-land  ! 

Then  Princes  dressed  in  cloth  of  gold, 

And  Princesses  were  strangely  fair  ; 
To  castles  gloomy,  weird  and  old, 

Oafs  dragged  their  captives  by  the  hair  ; 
Queens  rode  on  palfreys  that  had  wings  ; 

Knights  went  to  war  in  ten-league  shoes, 
And  half  the  men  on  earth  were  Kings,  — 

The  other  half  formed  Retinues  ! 

Oh,  Fancy-land  of  happy  youth  ! 
Thy  joys,  alas,  are  all  too  fleet  ; 

137 


belles 


By  years  so  fraught  with  cruel  truth 

Our  disillusion  is  complete. 
But  even  yet,  how  strange  and  dear 

The  wonders  of  that  golden  clime, 
And  how  our  pulses  thrill  to  hear 

Those  luring  words,  "  Once  on  a  time  ! 


138 


FUTILE  INTUITION. 


"  M IGHT  has  a  myriad  eyes," 

So  runs  the  legend  old, 
But  Love  has  a  myriad  more,  I  hold- 
And  still  Love  is  not  wise. 


139 


A  MESSAGE. 

T  T  is  too  much  to  ask  you  to  forgive, 

For  bitter  silence,  like  rank  weeds,  has 

grown 
Between  us  for  so  long,  that  though  I  live 

A  hundred  years  I  cannot  half  atone, 
Nor  by  the  magic  of  regretful  deeds 
Change  into  flowers  of  trust  the  bitter  weeds. 

But  could  you  for  a  little  space  forget 
All   that   has   happened  wrong,   and  live 
again 

Those  happy  hours  when  one  pale  violet 
Of  all  you  brought  me  to  my  bed  of  pain< 

Was  more  to  me  than  favor  of  a  king, 

Because  your  love  spake  in  the  little  thing ; 

And  mount  with  me  once  more  those  creak 
ing  stairs 

To  that  high  room  where  all  the  old  books 
lay, 

140 


Maria 

Where,   all  forgetful  of   the  world  and  its 

affairs, 
Our  love  found  speech  upon  that  perfect 

day, 

And  where,  like  Romola  and  Tito,  first 
Our    lips    assuaged     each    other's    burning 

thirst  ;— 

Could  you  forget,  I  say,  but  for  a  space, 

The  after-wrongs  that  tore  us  far  apart, 
I  think  the  old  sweet  love  would  light  your 

face, 
And  there  would  be  a  glad  song  in  your 

heart ; 

And  if  you  knew  how  deeply  I  regret, 
You  were  not  you,  unless  you  did  forget. 


141 


A  WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

P  IS  you  that  have  brought  me  sorrow, 

And  stained  my  life  with  tears, 
That  have  made  to-day  and  to-morrow 

As  dreary  and  long  as  years  ; 
You  are  false  to  the  faith  we  plighted, 

And  swore  by  the  stars  above, 
And  the  wrong  cannot  be  righted — 
But  this  is  the  pay  of  love  ! 

Yet  I  am  only  a  woman, 

To  love  while  ever  I  live, 
And  be  it  divine  or  human, 

Should  find  it  joy  to  forgive  ; 
One  rapturous  hope  I  cherish 

In  all  my  grief  and  unrest, 
That  ere  I  shall  fail  and  perish, 

You  will  clasp  me  again  to  your  breast ! 


142 


YOUR  SIN  WILL  FIND  YOU  OUT." 

/~\H,  well  for  the  joy,— 

It  is  sweet  !     It  is  sweet  ! 
The  sin  is  in  bud, 
Its  heart  in  retreat. 

Alack  for  the  joy  ! 

For  time  will  disclose 
The  shame  of  the  sin, 

As  the  heart  of  the  rose. 


143 


RECONCILIATION. 

/""^LASP  hands,  if  ye  love,  and  listen, 

Clasp  hands,  and  look  into  my  eyes, 
O'er  few  are  the  years  to  kiss  in, 

And  I  take  it  that  ye  are  wise  ; 
True  love  is  a  radiant  jewel, 

But  its  splendor  will  pale  and  pass, 
And  the  dark  of  the  night  is  cruel, 

And  there  is  no  balm  in  "  alas  !  " 

Then  oh,  while  the  dews  of  morning, 

The  morning  of  love  and  of  life, 
Are  still  on  your  lips,  take  warning, 

And  waste  no  moment  in  strife  ; 
Clasp  hands,  and  kiss,  and  banish 

The  evil  from  mind  and  heart, 
Kiss  now,  ere  your  passions  vanish, 

And  leave  you  dead  and  apart ! 


144 


TOO  NATURAL. 

T  1 ER  cheeks  are  roses  red  and  white, 

Her  mouth  a  cleft  red  rose, — 
But  ah,  she  is  too  natural  quite — 
Her  tongue  's  a  thorn,  he  knows  ! 


145 


THE  POET'S  FAREWELL. 

"THEY  say  my  muse  has  flown  for  aye, 

And  that  my  poet's  day  is  done, 
That  I  am  but  a  "  sinking  sun," 
Who  sang  so  sweetly  yesterday. 

My  masters  know  .     .     .   Yea,  it  is  o'er, 
With  broken  heart  I  close  the  book, 
Put  by  my  pen  with  one  last  look, 

And  turn  away  to  dream  no  more. 

What  now,  beloved,  remains  unsaid  ? 
One  wish,  perhaps,  before  the  end — 
That  you  will  think  of  me  as  friend, 

And  call  me  fair  when  I  am  dead. 


146 


A  FLING  AT  POETS. 

I F  I  had  a  girl  with  golden  hair, 
And  teeth  of  exquisite  pearl, 
And  eyes  that  were  gems,  resplendent,  rare , 
Do  you  know  what  I  'd  do  with  that  girl  ? 

I  'd  carry  the  beautiful,  precious  thing 
Right  down  to  a  jeweler's  place, 

And  I  'd  sell  her  quick  for  what  she  would 

bring 
As  an  ornament  to  her  race. 


PLAINT  OF  A  POET. 

T  N  good  old  times  the  Poet's  lot 

Was  one  of  honor,  pride,  and  praise, 
And  poesy  was  not  a  blot 

On  one's  fair  name,  as  nowadays  ; 
Alas  !  this  unregenerate  age 

Has  no  respect  for  Homer's  art, 
And  deems  all  Poets  need  a  cage, 

Or  dwelling-place  from  men  apart. 

An  inoffensive  chap  am  I, 

Who  have  my  hair  cut  now  and  then, 
And  dash  off  things  about  the  "  sky," 

And    "snow,"   and    "Spring    has    come 

again  "  ; 
And  everywhere  I  chance  to  go 

By  sneers  and  scoffs  I  am  attacked, 
Folks  nod  at  me  and  whisper  low  : 

"  Oh,  he  's  a  Poet !  "  meaning  "  cracked." 
148 


IDarta 

One  friend  alone  has  proven  true, 

And  once  I  said  :  "Pray  condescend 
To  tell  me  how  it  happens  you 

Deign  be  a  modern  Poet's  friend?" 
He  grasped  my  hand.     "  Because,  to  wit : 

You  've  been  maligned  in  hut  and  hall ; 
I  've  read  all  things  you  ever  writ, 

You  're  not  a  Poet,  sir,  at  all !  " 

THE  END. 


149 


M191946 


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